Ever After
by Zerbinetta
Summary: Bann Teagan makes good on his affections towards a highly flabbergasted mage. The trouble with proposing to the center of a love triangle you're not really part of is the reaction of the other two sides. Those being? Hilarity and panic, of course!
1. Surprises Ever After

This is my take on the already-announced project inspired by Crisium's use of the plot-bunny of Bann Teagan proposing to the female PC. While the main character is the same as in Seasons and the Fracture one-shots, the stories are separate. This should take place some time before the Landsmeet – ideally, the party went to search for the Urn of Sacred Ashes right after getting Wynne and are now stopping in Redcliffe on their way elsewhere. Otherwise, there would have been plenty of time for another romance to start fully, and the shenanigans to come need a little room for uncertainty.

General plot: Bann Teagan proposes to the female PC. Cue massive panic from the party, especially from a certain pair of love interests…

Everything save for Nimue Surana, my character, belongs to Bioware. Hopefully, I got the name of Teagan's bannorn correctly. If not, please don't sue!

Enjoy!

**o.O.o**

**Surprises Ever After**

**o.O.o**

It took returning to Redcliffe Castle for the third time for Nimue Surana to remember something she ought to have done right the first time.

Inwardly, she cursed a little as the hemline of her dress almost got caught in a heel of her delicate shoes. With Arl Eamon practically revived and safe, they had decided to rest for a day or two before heading out east to search for an encampment of Dalish elves. While the castle was hardly fit for any kind of representative occasion, at least the piles of bones and dead bodies had been removed by the diligent servants, who remained discreetly cleaning places even now, Nimue discovered when she almost tripped over one of the maids.

Of course, her costume (she refused to consider it anything else, because this had to be how thespians dressed when they wished to impersonate nobility) helped with the tripping. As they had arrived with great haste, her entire group had looked rather worse for the wear; battered armor, torn robes, weapons slightly chipped in places. Encountering dragon cults that believed their winged friend was the resurrected Andraste tended to have that effect on people. And while the last of these things could be remedied by a swift visit to the blacksmith (who was back in business and ever-so-grateful to help the saviors of his daughter) the clothing was a different thing; reparations took time.

And it went without saying that they should be provided with alternative attire, for the time being, but it wouldn't _do_ to have the champions of Redcliffe prancing around in servants' clothing, Arl Eamon's voice echoed in Nimue's head as she took a right turn, though her bitterness had made it more patronizing than it had been.

Still… did they have to take her shoes as well? And replace them with these Orlesian… _things_?

Fortunately, she didn't have to run around much more, because she managed to spot the person she was looking for near the vault, conversing with the castle steward.

"Bann Teagan!"

It was certainly a sight, the lithe elven mage without any certainty to her movements, tiptoeing in ribbon-decorated shoes and holding a fistful of a heavy brocade gown out of the way as if it were a sack of potatoes. In more ways than one, though, because apparently, Isolde's maids had managed to corner her and make certain that she wasn't "an embarrassment to the noble family" (it had to be the case, because this was their favorite phrase, from what Eamon wrote in his letters. Orlesians.); her already very straight hair had been combed with a mathematician's precision, not a single strand out of place.

Dismissing the steward, Teagan gave her enough time to manage to cross the distance safely, though she did seem a little wobbly on her feet once or twice, her face scrunched with determination.

"Careful, milady." The mage always had a slightly confused look in her eyes when he addressed her as such, which endearing in comparison to the sneering superiority most noblewomen emitted. "Surviving onslaughts of darkspawn only to be conquered by a dress would be a most inglorious end for a Grey Warden."

"Lady Isolde lent it to me after your brother insisted that we are to be provided with new equipment before we head out." Nimue explained briefly, steadying herself with one hand against the wall. "How she managed to run all the way to the village in these shoes, I have no idea. I cannot walk properly in them."

"You can consider it a learning experience, I suppose." Hardly something that would come in useful when fighting darkspawn, but perhaps it could serve as a dexterity exercise. Most soldiers would likely be embarrassed by being made to run around in heels to be made more agile, so suggesting that as training for the guard was out of the question. "But you wished something of me."

Obviously, she hadn't come running (which would be enough to give the Orlesian maids pause) through the castle simply to show off this new skill.

Reminded of her goal, Nimue bobbed her head briskly. "Yes, indeed. It's unforgiveable of me, so I apologize in advance, but I forgot to return this to you in the aftermath of… well, everything." She raised her – for once glove-less – hand, and slid the single ring she was wearing off her right ring-finger. "Here." she said, handing it to Teagan. Only proximity showed that it was the Guerrin family signet ring, which had allowed her group passage into the castle last time.

Afterwards, with Connor being possessed and help from the Circle required immediately, she had completely forgotten about even wearing it. Despite the gold band's rather massive design, it seemed to fit her hand quite well, contrasting with the dark green of her gown.

"There isn't any need to apologize; I, too, forgot about it." Teagan smiled grimly as he took the ring from her, noticing that her hands were rather cold. "Strange, when there are so many other things I would wish to forget about the whole affair, if I could. At least Connor was granted the mercy of remembering nothing. I cannot imagine how he would have dealt with the experience otherwise."

"It is a sign of his magical power that a demon this strong sealed a contract with him and actually seemed to intend to keep it." Nimue grimaced a little, sheepishly understanding that this might not be a fact a Chantry-schooled noble would like to be told about his nephew. "I know that isn't much consolation in light of all that happened, but I think that much good can yet come of him, if he is properly trained."

Fortunately unlike with Connor's parents, who could have been more emotionally affected by such words, Teagan could understand and appreciate a trained mage's point of view. Experiencing first-hand the kind of control demons could exert over the unaware had been an experience he wasn't likely to soon forget. Besides, he had at least the slightest emotional distance, allowing him to step back and view things in perspective.

"Isolde's actions were foolish and reckless, but I suppose a mother only thinks with her heart."

Nimue, to whom the concept of being either frightened child or concerned parent was foreign, looked away momentarily. "I wouldn't know."

"I apologize; I know apprentices are taken from their families at a young age."

"I…" Being apologized to by a noble was something that very easily managed to crack her concentration, even more so than polite conversation with one. "That's kind of you, but not necessary. The memories are distant now, more colors than actual shapes and sounds. Any pain can fade over time."

Despite the somewhat uncaring nature of those words, Teagan found himself smiling. Strength acquired through conviction. There was a trait to be admired. "You are a rather pragmatic woman, I see."

How fortunate that she had not chosen to follow a pragmatic path in her dealings with the problems in Redcliffe.

Unsurprisingly (because by now, her lack of refinement in the sense of not being able to distinguish compliments or even pleasant nothings had become obvious to him), Nimue shrugged, as if it were nothing. "It does no one good to dwell on it. I would have nothing in common with any family I might have." Those were Morrigan's words, but it was a sound justification. And true in her case. "But I'm certain Lady Isolde will be allowed some rare visitations, if she wishes. The Circle will need to rebuild."

Perhaps the first claim was a lie, considering that strong attachments to family members could lead to emotion out of control… and what Connor was willing to do to preserve his father's life had been made more than obvious. But certainly Connor could prove instrumental in the future, with his raw power and the right training.

Teagan had spoken to some of the Circle mages before they had set out to return to their tower, including the First Enchanter. It was from Irving that he had also learned a great deal about how Nimue had come to be a Warden and perhaps a little bit about her nature as well. Overall, the image he was being presented with was entirely pleasing.

"Yes, I understand that what happened there was quite a tragedy. So much destruction, and for what? A coup that only wastes our time and resources, which could be better spent battling darkspawn." With a sigh, Teagan decided to not pointlessly waste time with anger at a situation that would hopefully soon be rectified. "But let us not speak of such things in the rare moments of peace." Instead, he could now finally play the courteous host Nimue and her companions had likely been hoping for when they had first arrived. "Would you like me to show you around the castle? I imagine you've had little time to have a look around, battling enemies as you were."

Nimue blinked, but the smile she let spread across her features was hardly ungrateful. Perhaps they had a nice large library where she could sit down and not be forced to run around in heels…

"I'd be happy to, but I will slow you down in this get-up. I can barely walk, but my friend Leliana would be delighted if she saw me dressed like this." The response to this was, to the mage's utter bafflement, an offered arm. After a moment of uncertainty, she hesitantly accepted it.

It was almost like teaching a child how to walk, but leading the mage and showing her how she may best place her arm to shift her weight accordingly should she slip remained oddly endearing instead of tiresome after a while. Nimue walked carefully, as if considering each step, but didn't stop the conversation at any point and remained keenly alert of whatever they passed.

"I was under the impression the robes mages customarily wear are rather similar to dresses."

"Yes, but robes are made for comfort as well as usefulness. Dresses seem to be made simply for appearance's sake. Sometimes not even that." Nimue added, glowering a little at the ridiculously wide outer sleeve of her gown that kept sliding down her arm no matter how many times she tried to push the excessive fabric away.

But while Orlesian fashion sense remained questionable to him even after years of having one as a sister-in-law, even Teagan could appreciate too much embroidery when the right person wore it. "I doubt that it would be necessary for a dress to magnify what is already present, milady."

"You don't have to call me that. Milady, I mean. I'm never quite… used to it."

She had obviously intended to say that quite a while ago, but never really knew how to breach the subject. It was probable that no one had addressed her as such – what did mages call one another, aside from apprentice or senior enchanter, in any case? And how would templars address them (should they ever need to) if not as either mage or maleficar?

"The world is coming to ruin indeed if courtesy is not expected and what should be natural causes one unease." Their close contact allowed Teagan to feel some of the tension leave his companion – as long as she wasn't certain that her next step would result in a fall, she was unlikely to be able to relax entirely.

"You are kind." She almost mumbled the words, which almost left a strange taste in her mouth. Accusing someone of this was most uncommon for her. "Perhaps too much so."

"I understand that you come from a place where few showed you any courtesy or kindness."

_Your magic is a gift… but it is also a curse._

After years of being treated like a wild animal that wasn't yet entirely housebroken, those words had seemed hypocritical at first. The first of them, anyway.

"I might not have deserved it."

_I__'m disappointed in you…_

"I doubt that." The gentleness in Teagan's tone actually touched something in Nimue, who would have viewed the opinion of someone who hadn't experienced being brought up in a circle as patronizing or biased without a second thought.

"If I may be so bold…" Now this was a certain sign that she was letting her guard down, because nowadays, when Nimue wanted something, she didn't worry about politeness; she asked, and if that didn't yield results, she demanded and ordered. "Could you tell me about your home? I wasn't… allowed to leave the tower and I've come to like at least hearing tales about the world."

"I'm afraid nothing I can tell will be as exciting as you may hope."

"Excitement isn't what I crave." It was very likely that she had all the excitement she could ever want or need. "I wish to know the world, now that I'm part of it."

Surprised but genuinely flattered, Teagan gestured towards a bench in the sitting room they passed. The mage, grateful for a reason to sit down and possibly even relieve her already-aching feet of the lovely but impractical footwear, wasted no time and carefully disentangled her arm from her escort – oddly enough, their proximity hadn't bothered her in the least – and claimed one end of the bench with a curious and attentive expression.

It was strange to have to describe to someone where Rainesfere actually was.

However, even the most mundane details about the bannorn seemed to fascinate or at least interest her. She was a good listener, posing only occasional questions with surprising insight or a perspective entirely different than that of an ordinary person – a casual observer – might. And she never tired or made an effort to change the subject, genuinely eager to learn more after the long confinement in the tower.

For how long must a person be trapped in a single place to learn to appreciate the everyday, the ordinary, the plain? But Teagan supposed that their definitions of normalcy would vary greatly, influenced by the environments in which they had been brought up.

However, this brought another fact to his attention; this keen interest in events noblewomen would usually consider beneath their notice placed her ahead of them in his eyes, not merely as a warrior, but as a person as well.

"It sounds wonderful." And she said it with utter earnestness, like a child listening to a fairytale might. Surely it was a sign from the Maker that there was yet hope, if innocence and beauty – yes, beauty, both stemming from that innocence and separated from it by wisdom acquired by a very short time – could still exist in such a desolate and dark world.

"Only in comparison to the carnage you've witnessed here." Teagan noted ruefully. His own land was not unaffected by the Blight, though it wasn't as severe as the disaster of Redcliffe and he would have to return there soon after the planned Landsmeet or at least send word about the state of things. "Not all of the duties I have there are as simple to carry out as they should be and there are times when the effects take a long time to reach their intended target."

While not that well-versed in politics, Nimue nodded. "I understand that too well. Thank you for telling me."

And the words were filled with more emotion than she could consciously express, with gratitude for something people could dismiss as nothing. Had an observer only listened to her voice and forgotten what she was – be it Warden or mage, as it amounted to the same thing in this case – she could have easily been mistaken for a noble. But perhaps the mistake was with the world and not with her and there was yet a remedy for that.

"May I ask… where will you consider home once the Blight is over, milady? Do you have some place to go back to?" Teagan could see that someone who yearned for the world she had never seen would never consider returning to the Circle tower, even if she were to reign there. Better to be a beggar and free than a queen in a cage.

The question caught Nimue off-guard. "You have more confidence than I – I didn't really think that far ahead. There is a fair chance that I will die." she admitted, "But… if I should survive… I have no intention of returning to the Circle." That was the only rule she hoped to abide by. Now, she was just grasping at straws. "I suppose I could go seek out the rest of the Grey Wardens, but I don't know if I'd want to continue like this straight away. I suppose I'll just cross that bridge if I get to it."

"Don't you wish to devote some time to your own happiness?" Maker knew that she deserved it, especially considering the monumental task ahead of her. "Perhaps… settle down somewhere and live the way you please?"

This was a suggestion no one had ever made to her, that much was obvious from the uncertainty in her eyes. "I didn't think anyone would ever consider that." Nimue finally admitted. "I doubt many would take kindly to a mage trying to live as a normal person. No one would like to have such a neighbor.

Subtlety would be wasted on this woman, Teagan realized, because she hadn't yet learned to recognize it well. Someone had gone to great pains to ensure that she always thought of herself as a mage first, anything else second, meaning that anyone and everyone who wasn't a mage like her had to resent her for it. Isolde would certainly raise hell if the templars tried to do the same to Connor, because, title-less he may become, he was still her first-born son. But it was a great crime against anyone, especially those of the mages who could be so much more.

"But perhaps, if you were… offered the opportunity?" he suggested gently, watching the confusion and then uncertain perhaps-realization she was experiencing. When unguarded, Nimue was very easy to read.

"I… don't understand." Her voice had become small; this must be what she had sounded like when first told that she would spend the rest of her life sealed away from the world. "What do you mean?"

If he had known that things would evolve in this direction, Teagan certainly would have prepared a better way of suggesting this to her, something a little more grandiose. But perhaps that was for the best, because too much planning could very well lead to one believing that they knew their enemy before the battle had been won, which certainly wasn't the case.

"I had hoped for a better time to say this, but I don't think any of us can devote much more time to matters unrelated to our duties. Milady…" The title still seemed to unnerve her. "You would do me a tremendous honor if you were to return to Rainesfere with me… as my wife." he added softly, just in case she didn't understand yet.

With these words, Bann Teagan succeeded in stunning Nimue Surana to speechlessness, something which would be considered a historic achievement by all her tutors and acquaintances at the Circle tower. In fact, most of its residents would have likely congratulated him on this and then organized an alcohol-free party (mages were forbidden to drink anything even remotely able to mess up their soberness) where the circumstances of this could be discussed over and over.

Certainly this wasn't a reaction a man expected or hoped to provoke in a woman he was proposing to; Nimue went utterly still, her eyes appearing too large for her face and her lips slightly parted. It was almost as if she wasn't even breathing, but thankfully, her shoulders continued to rise and fall by the tiniest fraction of an inch. If she wasn't already sitting down, she would have obviously done so after this. In fact, at first, she looked ready to faint.

"You… I…" Words were escaping her without any context. This wasn't supposed to happen, certainly, because she wasn't a princess in one of those fairytales she had heard others speak of and therefore this wasn't real, because it couldn't be. "I'm a mage." she said finally, breathlessly.

Having anticipated this argument as the first she would throw, Teagan's smile was utterly peaceful. "And, as I asked you before, that hardly poses an obstacle to marriage, does it? You can marry, if you wish."

"There is the underlying expectation that no man will ever ask." Nimue said quietly, glancing down at her hands. If she still had any rings on her fingers, now would be the time when she would pick one and start twirling it around, possibly switching it between several fingers.

"Milady, you are always defying expectations." And certainly expectations were being defined here, because she had been brought up to sell herself far too short, believing that she couldn't aspire to much when it came to lifetime companionship. "Permit me to do the same for once."

"Nimue. You are… you are asking to m-marry me, so I think you have the right to use my given name." she clarified, if only to say something, because everything she had been taught was screaming at her that this was wrong and unreal and obviously some kind of figment of her imagination she had yet to see through.

Marriage.

_Marriage._

This offer was most certainly something Teagan considered a good sign, even if things were likely to go slow from this point onward. "If you wish, I would be honored. Do you have any other concerns?"

"I don't think… I wouldn't know how to be a noblewoman." She wasn't even able to be addressed as milady without feeling that something peculiar was going on. "You must understand… I've spent most of my life in a sealed tower."

"You were able to bring together people that would never have cooperated otherwise. Compared to that, I don't think any court etiquette will be difficult for you to adapt to."

"Yes, but the court would not adapt to me so easily." With two small movements of her petite hands that would have horrified the Orlesian chambermaids, Nimue brushed the hair framing her face behind her ears, revealing the most obvious mark of her race. "I'm a little short to pass for a human woman, even if I should cover these up."

To her utter surprise, at this, Teagan gave a well-meaning but hearty chuckle. "You seem to be destined to lead Ferelden into battle against the darkspawn and do so without fear, yet you believe you won't win any favors with the nobility." Life was ironic like this sometimes. Irony was that all these protests were quickly becoming reasons why she could very well be the right woman for him, not simply for his people.

"I will be honest with you, Nimue. The husband or wife of a Bann has no formal title. They are integrated into the nobility, yes, and are addressed accordingly. But they have no voice at the Landsmeet other than through their spouse." the bann explained plainly, smiling afterwards. "And, if I may speak freely with you, I care little about what the Landsmeet thinks on this account. I serve my country the best I can and allow myself only the slightest selfishness for the happiness I feel anyone is entitled to."

He would marry a mage and an elf and a Grey Warden and a commoner… because none of that mattered to him. Nimue could only stare.

"Milord-"

"Please, we are friends here. If I am allowed to use your name, the same courtesy should automatically fall to you."

"But… you know so little about me." That was the weakest of her objections so far. Besides, the reverse was truer, or had been before today.

Yet if she believed this to be true, there were yet ways to assuage her.

"You are brave and kind, willing to risk much for the safety and happiness of those that made mistakes." At long last, Nimue's pale cheeks reddened, because though this was a list of qualities and characteristics - hardly a flowery compliment – Teagan spoke with such absolute certainty that it served better than flattery. "You are cunning in your planning and wise in your counsel. And, perhaps most plainly, you are unquestionably lovely."

And, not least of all, there were others who would no doubt seek her attentions if given enough time due to one or many of these aspects of her. It was better to establish one's position ahead of time.

"The Maker blessed Redcliffe more than once when he sent you here; you saved the village, Connor and Isolde, and now even my brother. The Guerrin family is in your debt… and would welcome you warmly, I'm certain."

"I don't really think Lady Isolde would appreciate having a mage in the family."

"Even if she didn't, which I doubt, considering your efforts, we wouldn't be living with my brother's family." He could actually picture Isolde being very happy with the situation and trying to persuade Nimue to take on Connor as an apprentice herself, so that he wouldn't have to be sent among strangers in a distant tower. "You would meet each other at family gatherings and formal occasions, at the most. It is not only debt that made me choose you, Nimue." Teagan added, in case she would try to point this out. "I would be hard-pressed to find a woman more agreeable than yourself. And I do care about you, despite our short time together."

Gently, he took one of the no longer cold hands into his own, feeling not the touch of a mage, an elf, a Warden or a commoner, but the touch of a woman, flesh and blood just as he was. She didn't attempt to draw it away.

"I believe falling in love with you wouldn't be as difficult as you seem to believe."

In the moment when all masks and barriers fell, almost no one would have believed that a fearsome slayer of darkspawn was the woman who had been rendered immobile and silent by words that could have easily inspired joy in many a different female.

"You are entirely serious about this." It wasn't a fantasy or dream, apparently, because the warmth holding her was ever-present and she had no further cards to play. "I… it is likely that I will not survive to see the Blight ended. I wouldn't want… you could come to regret this."

"Missing the opportunity to ask you is the only thing I could possibly regret, milady." Again, there it was, the word that continued being like a splash of cold water to her face. "And if it should come to that," Maker forbid, because that would mean death to them all, "I will know that I was simply unworthy of a woman who sacrificed everything for her country." Perhaps this wasn't exactly how she felt about the issue, but the words had an effect on her, quickening something near her heart that wasn't supposed to exist anymore. "Would you do me the honor of considering accepting, at least?" Teagan added when it became clear that she was utterly unable to even make herself think about answering.

"I… yes. Yes, of course. I will. Consider it, I mean." It was as if something in her head was screaming, only to be outshouted by another voice and another, each telling her to do different things, from running away screaming to kissing the man then and there. Every single one of these choices was something she would come to regret. "I will try to have an answer for you before we leave for Denerim."

Afterwards, once they parted, Nimue took off her shoes with infinite patience and blindly sprinted off to find Wynne, because she needed someone to shake her and tell her what to do.

Leliana, who had been passing the chamber and overheard most of the conversation that was crucial, was long gone and already deciding what to do about this most interesting new development.

**o.O.o**

_**AN**_: Now that the fluffy part is over, let the shenanigans begin!


	2. Presents Ever After

Chapter two is here very quickly, but don't assume that the quick updates will continue - it's my last week at college this year and I'm flying home for Christmas pretty soon, so there will be other stuff that needs doing, other than fanfiction writing. Even if said fanfiction writing involves my possibly most favorite not-really-canon ship from DA.

The true shenanigans will begin soon, because I want to set stuff up first, but rest assured that I already have ideas that will be cute and awkward (they practically scream Alistair) and some steamier stuff for Zevran. I still haven't decided what the actual OTP of this story will be, so I'm very much open for input, but I really think that'll just be decided as I write.

I love Wynne, so this chapter involves lots of her. Plus, Leliana still needs more love… originally, Morrigan was supposed to have a scene with Nimue, but that got moved to the next part. Fangirls, worry not, Alistair and Zevran will both make their grand appearance in the next chapter – so far, if you want to see them, check out Fracture, my other DA fic.

Anyway, chapter two: Wynne is called upon for grandmotherly advice and Leliana continues her plotting…

**o.O.o**

**Presents Ever After**

**o.O.o**

In general, Wynne approved of their group's decision to stay at Castle Redcliffe for a little while to recuperate and get some repairs done. She was perfectly happy to have some time to herself and actually get to sleep indoors once in a while. While camping was something she could get used to with the amount of practice she already had, there was something about having your own bed with actual pillows that was highly agreeable, especially when one got older.

This also meant that she wasn't obliged to spend every minute of the day in the vicinity of all of her companions. Not that she minded most of them – united by their quest, they usually got along relatively well – but it was a welcome break. Not to mention that she didn't have to patiently endure Alistair's attempts at cooking or his carefully whined pleas to mend his shirt or forgive the sneaky socks that somehow always ended up in someone's things, usually hers, for the simple reason that they needed mending.

The fact that they were also less likely to be subjected to the smell of an overeager warhound or a random darkspawn attack had its charm as well.

Which was why it was peculiar and a bit worrying to see Nimue practically burst into her room as if she had the archdemon itself at her heels. Said archdemon was apparently an unholy fuse of an ancient dragon and Leliana, though, because she had been given a full makeover, apparently.

Instead of her trusty staff, she had two uncomfortable-looking shoes in her hand, something that was to be displayed in a case somewhere and not walked around in; in short, something precisely according to the bard's tastes. She was wearing a long-sleeved gown of various shades of green. The color didn't really suit her, but it wasn't unpleasant to look at in combination with her hair down. It could also have something to do with the fact that she looked ready to start barricading the door before the Leliana-demon could burst in and finish its evil agenda.

"Wynne! Wynne, I need your help, something very, very urgent has come up!"

Despite clearly having run through the entire length of the castle, Nimue wasn't panting; strange, that, considering that she wasn't particularly athletic, especially in comparison to the warriors and rogues she travelled with.

The senior enchanter looked up from her half-finished book – for such a Maker-fearing attitude that Lady Isolde seemed to have, her husband was in possession of some excellent literature even on some mildly magic-oriented subjects – took in the peculiar sight with the nonchalance only experience could have given her and promptly returned her gaze to the text.

"If this is about me helping you assuage the cook that your dog broke into the larder simply to chase out an invasion of undead rats or something of the sort, I can hardly help you, Nimue."

Goodness knew that Rabbit was indeed the bane of any and every cook around, considering his highly developed sense of smell and keen intelligence, which always managed to get him in the vicinity of food, no matter what perils or obstacles he might face along the way.

The elf, however, shook her head almost violently, messing up her hair a little as the loose strands slapped around her face like a curtain. "No, this is more serious than a little canine mischief."

Little? Mischief? Those weren't words that most people would associate with more than a few dozen pounds of purebred mabari, for certain. Besides, considering the antics the dog usually got into, this had to be highly serious if it couldn't be fixed with simply a curious whine and his large and slightly quivering puppy eyes.

"Oh, dear. Not the butcher shop, I hope. Because there are limits to persuasion, you know. Perhaps we should just give him more food, wouldn't you say?" Wynne mused, closing her book. "It might be more costly, but it would save us a great deal of trouble."

Still, it wasn't like Nimue to get this upset about any kind of trouble; Wynne had seen her take much worse things in stride, which was a trait she both envied and wondered at. Apparently, it was a habit that had to be acquired if one wished to survive as a Grey Warden for long, otherwise the insanity of your profession could eventually get to you.

"This isn't about Rabbit at all. In fact, he's been pretty good recently." Wynne didn't allow herself the small snort that echoed through her mind. Oh, he was good indeed, whenever Nimue was around. Alistair insisted to this day that his hand hurt where the dog had bitten him whenever he got a little too close to the mabari's food stash. "But the problem! The situation is really, really problematic."

Now that was highly descriptive. And a bit worrying, considering that what Nimue lacked in physical prowess, she made up in persuasion (which required a way with words).

"Deep breaths, Nimue, calm down." The elf's head almost didn't come up even to Wynne's nose, making it a little easier to remember her youth and inexperience despite her usual leadership persona. It also helped that she, like a child would, calmed down a little bit at the soothing touch of hands placed on her shoulders to steady her. "You're starting to sound like Alistair."

"He only did that once when Morrigan showed up for the first time."

Wynne hadn't been there, so she couldn't judge on that account, but she could easily imagine the templar lapsing into this not so eloquent speech pattern when faced with someone like Morrigan in the Wilds. What she had been present for, however, were the many occasions when Alistair tried to enlist the assistance of another – usually herself or Leliana – to determine how to best approach Nimue regarding his feelings.

The fact that the elf still hadn't fully caught on the fact that the boy was obviously utterly smitten with her was either an astonishing feat of ignorance or the pretension of such. Wynne privately wondered how long that would last.

Instead of bringing this to the girl's attention, she settled for a smile. "You'd be surprised. But tell me about this tremendous problem of yours." she added before Nimue could question her, moving her towards the nearest seat. That had always helped with distressed apprentices.

"It's about Bann Teagan." Nimue said once seated, after taking a deep breath.

This caught Wynne a little off-guard; she wouldn't have expected panic to be the elf's first reaction to a man. Especially not one of the usual and predictable suspects. If this were about her realizing affection for Alistair, Wynne could very calmly (with just a touch of amusement, of course) have assured her that to make the templar fall in love with her, she only had to give him another bright smile. On the other hand, if she had finally become traumatized by the highly expressive flirting Zevran was apparently always saving for her, the senior enchanter could suggest several threats that may or may not work (they hadn't for her, really, but it would serve to calm Nimue, so it might be worth a try).

But she had no idea why the woman who could blissfully ignore timid flirting while facing brazen overtures with a surprisingly sharp wit seemed so panicky because of a man who had been nothing but courteous and gentlemanly to them all.

"Ah, the arl's brother. A most agreeable man. Why would there be a problem? I was under the impression that he liked you." In fact, Wynne was also under the impression that he was also considering more serious intentions than those that might cross the minds of the two clowns currently competing for Nimue's attention.

The younger mage seemed torn between giving a short, rueful laugh and returning to the blissful state of thoughtless panic. "He does. That's why he's asked me to marry him." Instead, she settled for brutal honesty.

"He-" Even Wynne, who had been prepared for almost anything, froze at this sudden news. Everything that had gone through Nimue's mind within the span of the time since the proposal and now was imagined by the older woman in a few instances, including the implications. "Nimue, are you serious?"

Astonishingly, the nod she received in response contained no hint of uncertainty. "I asked him the same thing, believe me."

"That's… oh, my." Wynne was actually momentarily at a loss for words. It was a very definite move. "This is certainly… well, not entirely unexpected, but most sudden."

Sudden, not entirely, unexpected, most certainly, but also quite understandable. Wynne could see the reasoning behind it when considered from the point of view of a man of good character and well within marriageable age when faced with a candidate he found agreeable. After all, there was no telling when they might see each other again, so it was better to lay down the cards now – and Teagan obviously thought very highly of Nimue, as the hero of Redcliffe and a person as well if he was indeed offering such a thing.

Perhaps he had even noticed the potential complications waiting might bring – certainly Nimue would be faced with other suitors, from within her circle of companions and from outside – and intended to secure her attention (if not affection) early on, despite their eventual separation.

The motherly part of Wynne actually approved of this old-fashioned way of binding people and things together with a promise; Nimue, being the kind of person to never promise things lightly so that she could manipulate the situation for her own benefit, wouldn't go back on her word once she had given it. Assuming she would give it.

"I asked for a little time to decide… said that I would give him an answer before we left for Denerim, since we have to return to Redcliffe after we deal with the Dalish anyway." Nimue continued, studying her hands with pretended fascination. She tried entirely too hard not to imagine that the Guerrein family crest had been on her finger only hours previously, as if it were the most natural thing in the world. "I just… I don't know what I should do."

And she was asking another lifelong child of the Circle for advice on the matter? Wynne smiled warmly, hiding her wryness. It was actually a little sad that she was indeed the closest person to a parent or a guardian – or at least someone who could offer useful guidance on the matter – that Nimue had at this point.

Truthfully, who else would advise her somewhat impartially?

_And so I don't know how to answer._

'_Tis an interesting proposal, despite its binding nature. I would suggest marrying the man, if only to secure your independence from the Circle. Then you can simply keep him enthralled, should he stray._

_You_'_ve been married, so what do you think?_

_Aye, well, it's for suckers, but if that's what you wanna do, you could do much worse than a sodding noble. By the ancestors, would some of the noble hunters in Orzammar envy you. And you don't even have to get a bellyful of his kid. _

_I_'_m thinking of saying yes._

_So you intend to go back to being a woman once the darkspawn are defeated. Perhaps you aren't as irrational as the rest of your kin seems to be._

_Is it a good idea?_

_If it seeks to reproduce like other organics, the hound noble seems a suitable candidate. It killed some of the undead birds in the castle, so the creation of more similar-minded creatures can only be beneficial for this world. _

_Should I go for it?_

_Ooooh, you certainly have to! We_'_ll have a wonderful outdoor wedding with lots of flower garlands – lilies maybe, that would suit you quite well. I can already imagine what shade of fabric we need to get for your wedding dress!_

Wynne stopped her train of thought right there, because continuing it would mean trying to delve into what bachelors number two and three would have to say on the matter, and the elderly enchantress didn't really think she had the mental capacity to survive the horror of such thinking.

"Well, that depends." In the end, she chose the same approach as she had employed when Alistair had asked her to pretend that she was a woman being told by _someone_ that he was in love with her. That had yet to yield results, of course, but perhaps Nimue would be a little more receptive. "I will need a little context if I am to be of any help to you, though."

This time, Nimue actually laughed. "Context? What context? He complimented me a few times and we had several pleasant conversations, but marriage?" In the moment when she obviously imagined the full implications of that word, her face was both ashen and wistful. "I… I really don't know."

"Considering that you didn't shoot the idea down straight away, I believe you are at least mildly intrigued by the concept."

"Wynne, he _proposed marriage_ to me." Nimue said, with a glance that plainly suggested that he might as well have asked her if she had ever tried getting a hurlock to realize that what it was doing was wrong. "I was more stunned than intrigued."

"You've had a little time to calm down and deal with the idea, I imagine. Now, let's take this issue apart a little, shall we?" Wynne suggested, because she was intrigued herself about this sudden development. Certainly the Bann was a good man and Nimue seemed to like him, but that gave very little information on its own. "You've said you find him pleasant company."

To that, she received a response without any hint of hesitation. "Yes. He's the kind of man nobles like to imagine themselves as, I believe. And he doesn't resent me for being a mage. Well, that much is obvious, I guess."

If the four obvious red alarms in choosing her as a wife didn't deter him – those being, in order of importance: mage, elf, commoner, Grey Warden – then he was certainly the most open-minded noble Wynne had ever encountered. Of course, the fact that Nimue herself was rather exceptional in various ways could have helped on that account.

"I understand. Now, since you haven't protested on that account, I'll assume that you find his appearance as pleasing as his conversation." Nimue said nothing, but her complexion wasn't nearly as pasty as it had been a few moments ago. That was a yes, then. "He is a little older than you, I understand, but not so much as to pose a problem to the concept of marriage. From this, I gather that you like him and perhaps even care a little."

"Yes." Nimue said with a nod. Though his courteous behavior towards her puzzled her at times because it was just so uncustomary, she could freely admit to liking Teagan – after all, one of the impulses she had felt after the proposal had been the wild impulse to kiss him, which she certainly wasn't used to feeling towards anyone. If he had the courage to ask for her hand in marriage, wasting time with evasiveness and embarrassment would be pointless.

"Good, we're making progress." Wynne proceeded to move on to the next crucial point. "He's offering you marriage despite having considered your race, social status and possible inability to have children."

"I forgot about the last one, but I mentioned the first two as my primary concerns. He just… swept both off the table as if it were nothing." The elf looked genuinely bewildered, but also a little charmed as the full extent of the gesture was drawing on her. "Though he did say that I wouldn't be an actual titled noble, were I to say yes."

Wynne, who was a little more familiar with how titles worked among the nobility, was reminded of that as well. That explained and justified part of this blasé attitude to the problems of having Nimue for a wife, but took no amount of impressiveness away from the gesture as a whole.

"Ah, yes. By virtue of that, Bann Teagan has many more options when it comes to selecting a possible wife. There is one last issue, though; your duty." And here Wynne had been planning to remind the girl that love forged in the fires of battle might burn out just as quickly as it had sprung up. "He knows that you are a Grey Warden and cannot forswear that allegiance."

And here was a man who seemed to fully understand this duty and intended to wait for it to be temporarily over before claiming her as his own. Compared to the other potential candidates… now she was getting a little biased, Wynne realized.

"It didn't change his opinion." Nimue didn't really know if she actually could replicate the touching words that seemed to give her far more credit than she was worth.

"Well, this certainly is a most intriguing offer you've been presented with. Not many a man would be willing to marry a mage… but I can understand the decision." Wynne nodded to herself. In one fell swoop, he could make certain that the hero of Redcliffe was rewarded to an unrivalled degree, ensure that his position and his land was more secure than ever and bind himself to a woman he held in affection. "Yes, I believe this is all the information I need."

"What am I supposed to do?" For a person who had stood up to the bickering nobles of Orzammar without even batting an eyelash, Nimue certainly had her weaknesses. Fortunately, not the kind darkspawn were likely to exploit, unless they managed to produce a visually-altered infiltrator who could try to win her over… well, it was unlikely, not to mention not entirely sane or natural, so Wynne decided not to go there.

Instead, she leaned forward a bit in her chair, trying one of her more reassuring smiles on the Warden.

"Child, you cannot think that I would be able to answer for you. This is your life, your happiness in question. It's no doubt a daunting concept, marriage; we mages are discouraged from it, though mostly because it's highly unlikely that anyone but another mage would wish to marry us. But if what you say reflects Bann Teagan's feelings, then it would be very foolish of you not to consider the offer."

The frown that Zevran kept criticizing as unbecoming of her was back in place, giving the elf a slightly older appearance.

"Would you accept it, were you in my place?" she asked finally, twisting the question around to wheedle at least some kind of advice out of her companion.

Wynne laughed a little. "Were I what, thirty years younger and a lady of war such as yourself? I would certainly be tempted." she admitted. "He's an exceptional man; loyal, willing to brave anything for those he loves and apparently very open-minded." In a way, he was even similar to how the father of her son used to be, but Nimue didn't need to be burdened with ancient stories right now. "If I were in love with someone else, though, that would certainly be something to consider before making a final decision…"

The elf blinked, not really catching the hint. "Someone else? You think someone else could contact temporary insanity?"

"I'd take that possibility into account." While it could very well be simply idealized infatuation, Wynne didn't doubt that this news wouldn't leave Alistair unaffected. She kept a mental question mark near Zevran at all times, but she seriously doubted the assassin would be as emotionally involved in this as the former. "In any case, marriage is anything but temporary, so if he is indeed smitten enough with you to offer that, the intentions are entirely serious."

"I know." Surprisingly, Nimue was fully aware of this. She wasn't a great believer in the Maker, partly due to her race and partly due to seeing what fanaticism could do to a person, but she understood the binding factor of such a thing. Moreover, he had said wife; not betrothed. Wife. "Do you think I should say yes?"

"I think you should go back to your room, have a nice, long bath and not fret so much about it." Wynne said, smiling still and ushering the elf towards the door. "Then, once you're done, we can talk again at dinner."

**o.O.o**

Nimue wisely chose to follow this wise advice to the letter, walking to her room barefoot and asking the ever-present servants to prepare a bath for her. Peculiar as it was to have actual attendants for your every need, she knew she could very easily get used to this, given enough time.

In any case, she was glad to be able to get out of the damnable dress, even though it required the help of a second pair of hands to get it off without getting all tangled in the laces.

She did fret. Just a little, though, because, as time passed, she realized that she had asked for time until they left for Denerim, which was still quite a ways away. And that gave her time to consider things.

Marriage. Having a husband, possibly children, if they tried hard enough. Living a normal life, with people addressing her with respect instead of fear. It almost didn't seem real even then. But she could imagine it, and part of her found herself wishing for it. Of course, as a Grey Warden, her life would never be entirely normal, but this could be the closest to it she would ever get.

After a discreet knock that woke Nimue from her reverie, one of the Arlessa's maids walked in. It was in fact Valena, the smith's daughter they had saved previously, now no longer shrieking in fear at the sight of her. In fact, of the staff, it seemed that the girl was the one most eager to serve their guests, which was saying something, considering the near boot-licking most of the servants seemed to be willing to indulge in towards their saviors.

"Package for the lady Warden." she announced it almost regally, bringing in a medium-sized and carefully-wrapped parcel.

Nimue, who had been almost ready to get out of her bath and try to find something less elaborate to wear for dinner, nodded graciously. "Thank you, but I wasn't aware I was going to get anything."

"I was told it's for tonight, so I assume it's clothing for you, milady." Valena explained, "Your robes are still being repaired, along with the rest of the clothing and equipment."

Damnation. That meant that the servant was right and Lady Isolde was still trying her best to play Dress Up the Mage as a way of making her feel welcome.

"Could you open it for me? I don't want to get it wet and might need to send it back."

"As you wish." Valena unwrapped the package as if it might explode if she as much as touched it the wrong way. Once she was done with it, the texture of a cloth became obvious and then when she unfolded it, it was revealed that it was indeed another gown, though simpler and perhaps a bit lighter than the monstrosity she had been forced to run around in. "Here, milady, this was with it." the girl added, fishing a piece of paper out of the folds of fabric.

Nimue took the note between two fingers, careful not to soak it and smudge the ink. It wasn't any message or hint, simply a well-wish for someone else.

_To my darling Rowan, __in honor of this happiest of days, from your loving father Rendorn_

The blanks were easy to fill in, even though someone had obviously forgotten to remove this before sending it to her.

"I can't wear this." Nimue said immediately. Not in a million years. Just… no.

"Oh, but you must." Valena, on the other hand, seemed utterly charmed with the gown, even though she wouldn't be the one who got to wear it. That she hadn't read the note helped. In a moment, she reminded Nimue of Leliana, who would no doubt have a field day with this. "Presents such as this can hardly be refused."

"This is Lady Isolde's doing, isn't it?"

"Milady wishes to make amends for her previous behavior." Valena parroted, a little puzzled.

But that wasn't it at all and it didn't answer her question at all, Nimue thought as she climbed out of the bath, dried herself off and proceeded to collect her underwear. This was either a vicious manipulative ploy or something far more devious than that: mischief.

**o.O.o**

While Nimue was trying her best to dissuade Valena from dressing her up like a doll, Leliana was busy seeking out a little more information and deciding what to do with this.

She had suspected that the arl's brother was rather intrigued by Nimue, but she certainly wouldn't have expected a proposal! It was a bold move and no matter what the elf chose to say, it would greatly affect their general party dynamics.

Oh, she could already imagine Alistair's reaction at being told that the woman he was so innocently in love with was going to become his step-aunt.

Now, the question was, what to do with this information at her disposal? She supposed she could tease Alistair with cryptic hints, but that sounded a little too cruel. Instigating a conversation with Zevran would likely mean that the elf would assume that she had changed her mind about the whole "maybe I'd sleep with you if you were the last man in Ferelden, possibly Thedas" thing and respond in his usual manner. Besides, it was a little more entertaining if they remained in the dark for just a little while longer.

Instead, she scouted around a bit to see if she could find out a little more about things, but didn't spot any servants gossiping about this sudden proposal of marriage. Apparently, it had been a spur-of-the-moment thing. Which added to the whole romance part of the equation.

Well, since Oghren would doubtless ruin the suspense a little too soon and none of the others would offer any helpful input, Leliana concluded that only one source of information remained for her. After all, Nimue was bound to confide in someone when faced with something so alien to her and if she hadn't sought out the bard herself, that left only a single option (Alistair didn't count in this case, because he would likely choke on any words of advice he might wish to give when faced with this situation).

"Nimue has told you, hasn't she?" The bard entered Wynne's room with such a large grin on her face that it was impossible to even be angry with her for this sudden barging in. "About the proposal."

Wynne wasn't altogether surprised by this, but she did raise a reproachful eyebrow at the young Orlesian. "Leliana, I thought you had given up spying on people."

"For money, yes. For the purpose of helping them, no." the redhead noted impishly. If her expression was anything to go by, then Wynne's assessment had indeed been correct and she was going through possible tiaras for Nimue's wedding in her mind. "Besides, this doesn't really count; I just happened to be passing by when it happened. But she came to you, no? You are the closest thing to a mother figure she has."

Mages, separated from the rest of society as they were, had to be a little closer to an actual family than the rest of the world gave them credit for. After all, who else did they have?

"That's kind of you to say, but I don't think I can offer any motherly advice on the matter." After all, Wynne herself may have had a child and lovers, but none had proposed to her, for practical reasons. "What I will say is that Lady Isolde certainly isn't as foolish as she was with regards to her son's magic, assuming she realizes the chance this presents her with." Who else could have provided Nimue with the gown and with so little fuss, after all?

"Or perhaps she doesn't see the fact that there is a very small probability of this working out as she would like, no?" Leliana suggested, following this train of thought easily. In Isolde's shoes, she would be highly supportive of having a trained mage in her family as a tutor for her precious son. "Nimue wouldn't be able to take the boy from the Circle without the Right of Conscription and Maker knows that such an excuse would be called out."

"I am more concerned for Nimue herself." Wynne noted, frowning. It was good to discuss this with someone else who also knew the full extent of the chessboard and the position of its various figures. "If those two react the way I expect them to, this could get complicated."

"Those two? Aah, I understand." Alistair, who looked at her as if she were the true reborn Andraste. And Zevran, patiently watching for any sign of faltering resolve for the moment to press on and have her. Leliana herself would have been interested, but knew that Nimue's apparent ignorance of the male gaze upon her wasn't due to a preference of women (after all, they did have the occasional girl talk, even if the elf usually took some coaxing). "Still, it will be a grand game."

"You would consider it a game?"

"Why not?" The bard shrugged. "A race, maybe. The final decision is up to Nimue, in any case, so there is no harm in trying to influence it just a little bit."

"You are taking this surprisingly lightly." Considering what Wynne knew of the Orlesian court, this wasn't entirely unusual, but it was a bit peculiar to see it applied to the love triangle (or square? Circle? Was there a shape for the current situation?) their leader seemed determined to remain unaware of.

"It isn't as if either of us can stop them in any way, Wynne." Leliana pointed out reasonably, softening her voice a little. She meant no harm, being innocence itself. Still… "Since we signed up for this adventure, we might as well enjoy the ride."

**o.O.o**

Coming soon – chapter three: dinner at Castle Redcliffe turns out to be a surprising affair when Nimue enters in an actual dress and the beginning of a conflict is established…

Featuring all the already-present cast, plus Eamon, Isolde and Connor, plus, more importantly, Alistair, Zevran, Oghren and (if we're lucky) a small appearance courtesy of Morrigan as well!


	3. Meetings Ever After

As promised, chapter three is here! And guess what? Alistair and Zevran actually make an appearance!

**o.O.o**

**Meetings Ever After**

**o.O.o**

Operation "get Valena to give up on making me wear the dress" failed spectacularly, Nimue had to admit.

Worst of all, Leliana had popped in mid-dressing and decided that she wanted to help with her hair, at the very least. Apparently, letting someone do your hair was a sign of trust in Orlais, considering the great access to your throat it gave the person. It was one of those moments when Nimue was glad that her hair stopped just past her shoulders, because some of the things the bard had suggested could have been truly frightening to experience.

Nevertheless, in the end, she had to admit that it wasn't as bad as it could have been.

The new gown was much lighter than the first and actually relatively modest; considering that it had been a father-daughter present, it was only natural, after all. Its sleeves weren't made of a dozen layers, meaning that didn't have the annoying tendency of getting in the way, she had different shoes that couldn't serve as effective stabbing weapons and the dark red color actually suited her, compared to the green.

Nimue nevertheless stared at her own reflection as if she were facing a hurlock. It just… didn't feel right. Thankfully, she had managed to reject any offers of make-up from Leliana, partly because the bard hadn't been able to find proper tools for that, partly because the line had to be drawn somewhere. But mostly because she certainly didn't want anyone (read: Teagan) assuming that there was any ulterior motive to this dressing up. She had been manipulated into it, after all. It was a conspiracy.

Somewhere, the archdemon had to be laughing its winged and tainted dragonish backside off.

"'Tis a most peculiar change of costume." a familiar voice drawled from being the elf. Had she not been giving the mirror a stunned stare, she would have plainly seen Morrigan enter and close the door quietly; the witch never knocked. The inspectional look accompanying the small smirk was something livestock might be given by a potential buyer, though it wasn't meant to be interpreted as such. "Has Leliana gotten to you at last?"

"Don't scare me like that." Nimue said, hair whipping around her face as she turned her head sharply back and forth between the witch and the mirror.

Morrigan's smirk deepened just a little. "I believe you were already frightened enough. You intend to go dine with the others in such a costume?"

"I have little choice; they refuse to give me back my robes till they're mended. And so I got this instead."

"Here I was hoping you intended to have a little fun and attempt to break the brains of those two fools." Nimue didn't have the proper attitude for that, of course, another of the many things the tower had managed to inflict upon her during her imprisonment there, but there was always the hope that it could be rectified. "'Tis a shame, for I would have actually attended the superficial gathering for that."

"I need people who can actually think following me." the elf pointed out, smoothing a bit of her skirt absent-mindedly. She had rarely needed to do that with robes, but this lighter material – was it silk, even? – seemed to be made to annoy her this way. "At least to the point of being able to listen to instruction."

"Well, that is reassuring. Now I finally see why you chose to take Alistair along."

Nimue, by now used to being the mediator between these two, wisely chose neither to defend the templar nor to condemn the witch. Her earliest companions had never been and would likely be friends. "Choice had little to do with that; he's a Grey Warden, like me. You make do with what you can get."

"But t'was your choice to spare Zevran and then bring him along." Morrigan pointed out, momentarily moving her attention to Idiot Number Two. Considering how touchy-feely that one got even when Nimue was wearing neck-high mage robes, her current neckline was liable to provoke something that would have the servants gossiping for months to come. "You may wish to memorize a few more spells for after dinner if you truly intend to go like this. Surely you understand that he will see this as encouragement." she added when the elf gave her a quizzical look.

Another thing the tower had robbed her of was the ability to see when a man had succumbed to an infatuation with her as the target; fortunately, she could still see when a man obviously lusted after her. Then again, the assassin didn't seem to have any limits when it came to lusting after people, as long as they weren't Oghren (and even Morrigan hoped he hadn't been lying about joking on that account, because that was just too disgusting even to her). Nor did he wish to keep it a secret.

"Tell me again why my mess of a love life seems to be the only thing that interests you people whenever we're not off to kill some darkspawn?" Nimue asked, exasperated, trying to pull her neckline as high as it could go without messing up the rest of the gown. A few millimeters were all she got out of that attempt.

"Why, because 'tis amusing, of course." Morrigan answered, her voice the definition of an innocent sing-song. What else were they supposed to gossip about when there was no killing to be done aside from ways to kill each other off? Well, she wouldn't really know, seeing as she preferred to avoid conversation with the others whenever possible. "There is little else to provide entertainment for everyone that doesn't involve carnage."

"Forget I asked. You're not coming to the dinner, then?" Nimue finally remembered that snippet of information, which the other woman had only hinted at.

"No. 'Tis why I came to speak with you in the first place. I intend to look around the settlement for any remains of the demon's taint." Morrigan announced. That she was actually informing Nimue of this without just heading out was a sign of respect, perhaps even a question for permission. "There could be things here that I could yet learn from. 'Twas most interesting, how the abomination acted. Desire demons are not usually entirely so frivolous."

Months ago, this would have creeped Nimue out entirely. It was a sign of experience that she barely even batted an eyelash at such talk. "Will you return to the castle afterwards?"

"If I must. I would prefer the open air once again, but spending time away from the idiot brigade will most certainly be relaxing. At the risk of sounding like our precious bard, I intend to find out how the evening went for you afterwards." For Morrigan, this would have been peculiar some time ago, but she had long since learned that there was amusement to be reaped from the antics of the fools competing for Nimue's attention. Considering their general uselessness on the long run, this was the only thing that usually justified their presence and existence.

"Surely you don't think they'll be too…" The flat look she received as an answer promptly silenced the elf.

"At times I wonder which one of us has lived most of her life isolated from this world of cities and walls you seem to consider your own, Nimue."

**o.O.o**

With Morrigan off, Nimue assumed that things might actually turn out peaceful that evening. Aside from her, she knew Sten would most certainly refuse attending the gathering and either camp out or get his own food. Shale, who didn't need to eat, would likely also do something else and Rabbit would most probably be left on their hands, along with his bowl of food.

Not that that didn't leave the potential for disaster. Nimue trusted her companions on the battlefield; there, they were skilled and certain, most obviously perfect choices for someone you'd want watching your back when an ogre shows up from nowhere.

She wasn't entirely certain if the same applied for a formal dinner with a noble family that was in their debt, especially after the warning she had received.

The first of the potential dinner-wreckers, she didn't want to worry about too much. Certainly Leliana's face lit up a little too much when she entered the dining hall, but Nimue decided to attribute it to the bard's enthusiasm for her own work and not any devious plots. At least with her, the mage could trust that an appropriate conduct would be followed. So that she could try to copy it, hopefully, because Nimue herself had only a vague idea what a proper code of conduct at a formal dinner might be.

"Ooh, this color suits you so very much, Nimue!" Leliana had supposed that dark red would be more suitable for a brunette like Morrigan, but the rich color offset Nimue's hair prettily, almost giving a glow to her complexion. It was the bard's masterpiece, really, the way the hair complimented the clothing. "A little more embroidery would have been nice, but simple is stylish as well!" she added now that she had the chance to finally see the finished outfit.

Discreetly, the bard glanced to see if Wynne was paying close attention to the situation, because assuming her peripheral vision was yet intact, this change of attire had promptly managed to stun the male population of the room. Even Oghren had apparently paused his drinking for a second, resuming only once it became clear that everyone else was being an idiot as well.

"I am glad to see that the gown fits, Lady Nimue." Isolde and Eamon were present as well; it was refreshing to see that the Orlesian lady was capable of speaking in a calm voice as well, not only the shrill dulcet tones of desperation.

"It does, and I thank you, but the one you sent me was sufficient; you needn't have troubled yourself, Lady Isolde."

"It is the very least I can do." Apparently, she had also become a bit more accustomed to speaking to mages, her tone a little humbler when speaking to the woman who could have very easily chosen to take the easy route and slain her son with a single spell. "Perhaps… you could talk to Connor a little later on?" she asked a little timidly as Nimue sat down in her appointed place. "The mages, they spoke to him when they were here, but apparently the tower needs to be cleaned before they can come for him and… well… maybe you could tell him a little about it? I-I wouldn't want him to be afraid of leaving, he's never been far from Redcliffe, especially not alone."

Those who hadn't known Nimue for too long or too well wouldn't have noticed the way her face hardened at such a request. "You've told him that he will be leaving for the Tower?

"Slowly… yes." Isolde nodded. "But I want him to get used to the idea first a little bit before he can absorb all the information." It was likely that she herself had not yet gotten used to the idea. Nimue suspected that only persuasion and reason from Teagan (who she tried her best not to look at too much; a difficult feat when he was seated almost directly across the table from her and most definitely observing her) had opened her up to the very possibility.

"I see. I can tell him a few things, yes." About the good that could come from magic, the control that must be learned and the power there was in using it the right way. "Is he to dine with us tonight?"

"He will come down shortly." Eamon noted when his wife seemed a little dazed still. "He has to readapt to the company of other people and you are not complete strangers to him. I suppose that some part of him still remembers your encounter in the Fade. In any case, let us not speak of the past." the arl suggested wisely, with a slight smile. "For a moment there, I thought that our sister had actually returned when I saw you in her old clothes, lady Warden. You could have given me a small warning and spared me another potential health condition, Isolde."

"My apologies, husband, I had not realized." And she had indeed not spotted the note that had been with the dress.

"Come now, Eamon, it does our sister honor, may the Maker give her rest, to have her possessions be of use to the Grey Wardens. Though I suspect gowns from her youth wouldn't be the first thing she's imagine them using for worthy purposes with such success."

This was the point where it would have been downright impolite not to look at the man complimenting her, something that would have been far easier if Nimue hadn't seen a similar tenderness in his expression hours previously in a somewhat more definite context.

"Thank you."

Wynne, who was watching discreetly, smiled slightly at her goblet as she took a sip of wine. As much good as Nimue might have been to the tower, this man could do the same amount for her. And the girl would need a way to recover after this ordeal, assuming she survived. Perhaps… perhaps this could even have a future, because it wasn't love Wynne saw there. It was the foundation of deep affection, which had great potential to transform into something greater.

If the arl saw any significance beneath this exchange, he didn't comment upon it and Lady Isolde remained the same as ever. "So, I understand that you will be heading east into the Brecillian Forest now."

"Yes, we hope to find an encampment of the Dalish there. They are the last in our list of treaties… hopefully, for once, my being elven will help us somewhat."

"There's never been a problem with that." Alistair, who had appeared quite mesmerized by this new attire (and, in Wynne's opinion, very endearingly embarrassed by his sudden fascination with Nimue's newly-revealed cleavage), regained the power of speech. "I mean, the Circle couldn't really care less at the time and the dwarves wouldn't have welcomed us any warmer unless you were one of them, so…"

"It's just that things get a little easier once you establish that we're Grey Wardens first, anything else second." Nimue noted, quoting part of her creed. Before, it had been one word instead of two - mage instead of Grey Warden - which was the extent of the change.

"Better to be feared than loved, then?" Teagan asked wryly, earning a somewhat grim look in response.

"I don't think anyone would really love seeing the Wardens showing up on their doorstep, since we apparently have a reputation for always bringing trouble. Fear, I am used to." Nimue added, without allowing the words to be colored by emotion.

_A gift… and a curse…_

"Magic is not something to be taken lightly. What we have seen here in Redcliffe can only confirm that. Yet if we automatically become prejudiced against mages, we only enforce their own resentment of us. It's like a charmed circle."

"Pun unintended, I suppose, Leliana?" Wynne noted, raising an eyebrow in amusement.

The bard blinked only once before cracking a smile. "Hah, yes, I suppose. Still, perhaps all the laws regarding magic aren't entirely necessary."

"A surprising opinion from a former lay sister."

"Magic can hurt people, yes, but it can also help a great deal when in the right hands." Besides, it was a fascinating phenomenon. At times, the bard even wished that she herself could wield it, quite akin to a painter creating a landscape on the canvas. "The only thing that could be regretted is that one cannot choose to study magic if the gift isn't present and must if it is."

The answer seemed to have impressed Lady Isolde, but she said no more. Perhaps she was somewhat more willing to consider mages people, now that her son had turned out to be one of them, but that was yet to be seen.

In the meantime, Wynne returned to watching the most endearing conversation that contained none of the awkwardness or depravity Nimue had likely grown used to when speaking to men with intentions towards her.

"Do you miss anything from your life prior to the Circle?"

"Care to answer, Wynne?" the elf asked, turning to her with a smile. Wynne was almost certain that it was partly because she didn't wish for things to appear as if there was any underlying focus on her in this exchange.

"I believe the question was directed more at you, my dear." Wynne would have none of it. of course, she could be a bit merciful. "But my answer would be no. Then again, I am older than you and perhaps remember a little less from my distant childhood."

"I don't think I remember much myself, but that's mostly because I didn't want to remember when I came to the tower." Nimue remarked, now forced into answering. Strangely, it was easier than she believed it would be, just talking as if it were just ordinary dinnertime conversation, like those they had over the campfire. "It looked so wonderful compared to the alienage and I knew I wouldn't be able to leave and see my parents again even if I wished to."

"Do you think that the same will happen to Connor?" Arl Eamon spoke before his wife could, but her expression spoke volumes. Of course members of the nobility would assume that the rules could be bended a little for them, even if they were just as flesh and blood as anyone else. "Might we be allowed to see him from time to time?"

The arl was hardly one to dismiss his own son as a thing simply due to his powers and would certainly not consider him dead or not his own child. After all, all that the boy had done had been for his family.

Nimue fidgeted a little in her seat, but didn't squirm under the studious eyes. "I can't promise you anything… though I do think that the Circle will be pushing for an alteration of Chantry policy after this. Some people want freedom far too badly and this happens… you can't just lock people up and expect them to accept it for the greater good. All of us are selfish to a degree."

"Prejudices are held deeply in people's hearts - it's something they cling to when faced with something they don't understand and therefore fear. It's always much easier to presume than to try and understand. First Enchanter Irving and I spoke a little before he departed for the tower." Bann Teagan added when the elf looked at him with surprise and something perilously close to admiration. "He was very forthcoming and even told me some of what transpired in the tower when Jowan tried to escape."

The day she defied the Circle…

...the day she became a candidate for the Grey Wardens.

"He told you of my involvement in that, then?" Something in her tone seemed to be voicing another question entirely: You know what I have done. You asked me nonetheless? You _want_ me despite that?

Instead of whatever she had been expecting, she received kindness. "He said that you risked everything to help a friend, which was commendable, if foolish. His words, not mine."

And there was gentleness in that look he gave their leader, something which didn't go unnoticed by the two women who were aware of the circumstances and Zevran, who would have found polite conversations among nobles boring and irritating when it didn't involve a job. Of course, having a _very_ agreeable angle to study Nimue's attire from helped catch his interest and from then, it was easy to observe these things. The bann was a subtler sort than Alistair and certainly nowhere near as awkward, but once you knew what you were looking for…

This could provide potential complications for two reasons. Those being that he doubted that Nimue was yet positively disposed to bedding two men simultaneously and that the probability of the human lord willing to share was even slighter, assuming he was anything like his step-nephew.

Entirely a shame. But if a choice had to be made between the two, their fair leader was the clear winner.

"I believe he was impressed, despite his disapproval. He spoke most highly of you."

"And who wouldn't?" Leliana insisted with a grin, using her proximity to temporarily wrap an arm around the elf mage's shoulders. "Don't spread the word, but she's a true sweetheart underneath it all."

"Leliana, I've already been subjected to you insisting on doing my hair." Nimue asked tiredly, but the bard had succeeded in her mission. Without any make-up, the elf's complexion had looked like parchment; pale, almost pasty and a bit sickly. When a light blush graced it, every ounce of beauty she possessed was amplified. "Must you torment me even more?"

The bard gave her a smile that was innocence and surprise itself. "Moi, ma chére?" Anyone who hadn't known the redhead for as long as Nimue would have easily missed the cheekiness in her voice. The elf was getting the distinct impression that Leliana, with her admitted techniques of transforming oneself into the kind of woman any man would fall in love with, was aware of at least something that was going on and wished to apply said techniques on an entirely untrusting subject – her. "I am but trying to make the world see you as the wonderful person you are. What else are friends for?"

"That's not really fair; you never help me with that!"

"Do you need me to, Alistair?" The bard knew the answer, of course. Those wonderfully awkward questions about how he could show a _mystery woman_ his appreciation… ah, yes, she remembered those fondly to this day. "All you have to do is ask."

And, apparently, Alistair did too, judging by the way his eyes briefly darted to their leader and a pinkish tinge amplified on his cheeks. "I… think I'll just have some more cheese. Could you pass me some, Nimue?"

"Of course." The elf reached out for the plate without hesitation. On the other side of the table, Zevran was trying to decide if Alistair was actually aware of how this charming motion would emphasize the delights her neckline was so cruelly concealing. No chance of that, if the general obliviousness of the man was anything to go by. However, this was a very, _very_ solid argument to start a small-scale war of wills, because the spoils were most definitely worth it. "The usual kind?"

"It's good to see that the two of you are getting along so well. Successful cooperation is the first key step to success."

For someone who had been angered and out of touch with the man who was practically his uncle, Alistair could certainly grin goofily with greater ease when they were discussing cheese and when Nimue was the one handing it to him. "Yeah, I had to fill her in on the Grey Warden "everyone has to smile and get along" policy. I think I've managed to get her trained."

"Yes, Alistair is the true mastermind behind things." Nimue admitted, struggling to keep her voice serious. "He's just letting me think that I'm leading us, so that he can swoop in and get all the glory in the end."

"And you're completely unaware of this." Alistair mimicked what he likely presumed to be movements a blood mage might make when enthralling an unsuspecting victim. He even squinted a little to make the effect all the more lifelike.

The sample of lilting laughter she offered was most definitely something to be craved. "Naturally. It wouldn't be amusing otherwise, would it?" she suggested, returning her attention to the food.

The rest of the meal continued pleasantly enough, even though a servant eventually came to apologize that Connor had fallen asleep over a book, of all things, and would likely deserve not to be disturbed. As everyone was trying their best to avoid conversing about the darkspawn or the attack on Redcliffe – since this was supposed to be a pleasant dinner, not a tactical meeting – the topics were a bit limited and thus mostly revolved around Nimue and Wynne telling the more pleasant tales from their mage days. It wasn't an entirely subtle way of assuring Isolde that Connor was going to be all right – Nimue still hadn't entirely forgiven the woman for thinking with her Connor-centered heart, if she had been thinking at all, and torturing Jowan, despite his part in the debacle – but it worked, to a degree.

But Leliana's keen eyes were watching the situation carefully, and she steered the conversation back to its proper path once or twice when it strayed from Nimue too much. She was actually enjoying this little manipulation, despite not having any particular strong opinion regarding any outcome. The elf mage was beginning to suspect her, yes, but she could deal with that eventually. Right now, she intended to make certain that the woman who had stood up to a broodmother without vomiting and running away (possibly in the reverse order) wouldn't try to do the latter after such a sweet marriage proposal.

And, of course, the fun would no doubt get a little more heated soon enough, because she was under the impression that Zevran, at least, had caught on a little bit. It wasn't entirely unusual for the assassin to be silent at such a gathering (because compromising Nimue's integrity just for fun was the one thing that obviously wasn't his intention), but, being a former bard, Leliana could read expressions relatively well, even if they were carefully-measured beforehand.

This hunch was to be thoroughly confirmed a little later on, though Leliana wouldn't be able to see it first-hand.

Nothing overly telling or affectionate had transpired between the elf mage and her newest suitor; presumably, Teagan's manners were too well-bred to invade the lady's personal space to persuade her in any manner while she was deciding on whether or not to accept his proposal. They had simply said goodnight to one another cordially, as they would have to the rest of the people present. Only the moment when they looked at each other was a little longer than it had to be. Nimue had been the first to look away and leave.

There were others who didn't have any such inhibitions to restrict them, of course.

Nimue had almost made it to her room when a pair of arms snaked their way around her waist, holding her in place. Considering that she hadn't heard the person approach and there seemed to be no servants around at this time of the evening (as most of them were cleaning the dining hall) was enough cause not to yelp. It was also a bit beneath her dignity to do so when she could employ shock spells instead.

Before she could, though, there was the sensation of warm breath on her neck and something in her ribcage clenched shut, as if doused with icy water.

"Might I just say that you look entirely ravishing in clothes such as these, my dear?" Zevran spoke without any kind of pretext or apology at creeping upon her like this, which was another thing she had gotten used to over the past months.

Nimue tried to mildly shrug the grip off, but it was rather firm. Instead, she turned around, which she instantly regretted. "You've said it already, so I can hardly refuse, can I?"

"True…" She had cause to regret it as well, because the man most definitely had absolutely no sense of personal space and barely allowed her to back away a bit. "I wouldn't mind doing a little ravishing myself, either…" The smile accompanying these words should have melted her resistance, but succeeded at freezing something in her as well.

Even if she wanted such things – and Nimue hadn't known the answer to that even before having received the proposal of marriage from Teagan – she wouldn't have known how and if to allow herself to venture there.

"Judging by the way Arl Eamon reacted when he saw me like this, if anything were to happen to the dress, I'd get killed. So I'm afraid I'll have to graciously decline."

Zevran's smile didn't falter one bit and despite the crudeness of the suggestion, part of Nimue was for considering it, at least. "I can give you my solemn oath that I will be most careful when pulling it off your delightful body."

"I'm leaving now." Nimue interjected before she could discover any further recklessness within herself. Allowing this was quite dangerous in itself. With that, she backed away, this time allowed to do so.

Of course, that wasn't yet the finishing blow, because the assassin sighed most melodramatically. "And yet again I must contend myself with the dreams you inspire. Such a vision of you to haunt me even in my sleep… you, my dear, are utterly cruel." he chided with just a hint of playfulness. Something told Nimue that even if she indeed were cruel, he wouldn't mind one bit.

Especially considering the almost unnervingly penetrating look he was giving her; how could anyone maintain eye contact and still give the other person the impression that they were naked and about to be devoured?

"Goodnight, Zevran." She broke her own train of thought firmly, turning on her heel and walking away to her part of the castle.

The sensation of being the prey of an entirely too gleeful predator didn't subside one bit. "It can still get better, should you change your mind…"

She must have actually gritted her teeth just a little as she took a turn to stop herself from deigning that remark with a response. It was still a victory of sorts, that she didn't give a firm refusal…

The assassin smirked to himself a little bit. If the little humans wished to pit their skill at seduction against him for such a delightful prize, well, who was he to refuse them?

**o.O.o**

Next chapter: Enter Oghren. That is all.


	4. Betting on Ever After

As promised, Oghren shows up in this chapter with a speaking role at long last, along with Dog and Shale! Sten fans might have to wait a little further, but he will definitely be making an appearance; it just depends on how well I can incorporate him into the future chapters as the straight man on the whole party.

Oh, and just so people don't forget, the OTP of this fic remains undecided, so feel free to offer your input regarding who should get the girl in the end. So far, we have two votes for Teagan, one sort-of vote for Zevran and very little love for Alistair. As this is an experimental fic, there is still room open for decisions – it's a write as you go process, so to speak.

I hope I got Shale right, because my lousy internet connection refuses to allow me to download the DLC, but that should get fixed soon. Please let me know if the character is correctly portrayed.

Anyway, onto the action!

Chapter four: Oghren and his arch-nemesis lay down their weapons for a while to discuss the situation and Alistair finally gets a hint… or not.

**o.O.o**

**Betting on Ever After**

**o.O.o**

Shale hardly claimed to understand organic behavior, even after years upon years of forced observation.

The decision to allow their group to remain inside the stone fortress while the fleshy companions got the rest their easily-tiring bodies apparently needed so came with many perks. For one thing, it appeared that no birds were allowed inside the fortress, which was wonderful. For another, Shale was allowed to go wherever she wished, without having to bear their company when she didn't want it – which turned out to be most of the time. After all, solitude and peace at the same time seemed like an unreal fantasy after all that pent-up anger at being forced to watch without any chance of crushing their puny skulls when back in that accursed village.

Whenever she needed something from their leader, she would go to the library, because the enchantress was most likely to be found there, with a pile of books at its feet, smiling as if it had just managed to find the mother of all pigeons and was getting ready to crush it with its newly-pointy-heeled footwear. Today as well, on the third day of their stay in the Red Village, it was there when Shale passed it, but this time accompanied by another and not appearing so entirely happy.

It was with the hound noble, its face arranged warily, as if the enchantress wasn't certain whether to remain courteous or raise its hands to summon fire and ice. But it seemed to have no need of a companion in arms as of yet, because its motions weren't entirely rigid and it appeared that it wasn't about to be attacked.

"We have only a few maps of the area that you intend to explore." They were going over old tomes together, with many maps of the Brecillian Forest laid out on the tables in front of them. "In addition, the forest is known for its tendency to change over time. I cannot say we will be of much help with this."

"You're helping greatly as it is." The enchantress flipped through the pages of a heavy book as if it were nothing, with more strength than its frail frame would suggest. "I think there's something more over there, look, it references this book here."

And, it turned out that they weren't entirely alone, because the clown knight showed up with yet another pile of books. Like the enchantress, it had forsaken its combat attire of metal for looser clothing, at least for the occasion, and came towards them carrying another stack of books.

"I'll go get it for you." Shale was reminded of a dog, really, by this eagerness it displayed whenever the enchantress had any sort of request to fulfill. "It should be in the cartography section, right?"

"Thank you, yes."

And the clown knight dashed off to fetch its bone with the reckless abandon of a puppy, its happiness practically streaming off it in waves.

In the meantime, the enchantress and the hound noble continued their search, their hands occasionally brushing against one another as they traced the map; the enchantress always seemed to react like a bird sensing that it was about to be hit by a nasty shock spell. Nevertheless, they managed to get along.

"The Dalish clans are unlikely to stay in one place for long. You will have trouble locating even one of them, especially with few locals to tell you where their caravans might have passed through."

The enchantress slipped on the mask of the Warden, grim and full of determination. At times, there was almost the trace of a golem's strength in it. "We have to try nonetheless. All the allies we can get are necessary. What is it?" it asked after a brief pause, glancing at the hound noble quizzically.

"Nothing, really." A ridiculous answer, Shale thought privately. Organics that were rather sane rarely smiled so for no reason at all. Especially at an organic of the opposite gender who was within the stage of its life when reproduction was possible. "You are entirely devoted to a cause you didn't have a choice about selecting for yourself. It is something to be admired."

"I hardly think of it that way." But the enchantress appeared receptive to these gestures, its breathing a little shallower than usual. Nothing another organic would notice, though. "It's my duty and calling – I could hardly refuse, even if I wanted to."

"Nimue, if I may… have you given some thought to my request?" The enchantress reacted to the soft mention of its name, tension spreading through its limbs. "I have no wish to rush your decision, but… I confess to a little anxiety. If you are simply seeking the best way of politely rejecting, you can tell me so freely. I promise not to be too crushed."

Lies, Shale concluded. No organic would be pleased if its incentive towards a mating ritual was rejected.

But the enchantress shook its head with a hint of franticness, its hair slipping out of the flimsy clasp only a magpie might have interest in – another article of clothing courtesy of the shrieking woman, no doubt.

"No, no, no, that isn't the case at all. I am considering it, that I can promise." It gave a mild smile it usually reserved for tired amusement over the antics of the less mentally stable ones in its entourage. "I am also still recovering from the shock of it, mind you."

But the hound noble seemed appeased and – with subtlety that Shale thought impossible for organics – drew a little closer to the enchantress, who didn't notice. "It couldn't have come as that great a surprise. Surely you don't believe that being able to cast a few spells will deter every man."

But before the enchantress could realize their proximity, the clown knight came running back with yet another book thick as a brick, apparently grinning in triumph at its own cleverness and craftiness.

"Got it!" it proclaimed, triumphantly laying it down on the table. But it wasn't entirely as oblivious as it made itself out to be, because it saw the slow smile of the hound noble and the downcast eyes of the enchantress. "Hey, what are you two whispering about there? You're talking about me, aren't you?" Of course, the fact that it _was_ mostly as oblivious as it made itself out to be helped. "Leliana has corrupted you after all!"

And the enchantress knew just how to make use of that fact, laughing a little. "Oh, yes. Bann Teagan has been telling me all sorts of embarrassing childhood stories about you. I only wish there were pictures, but I imagine that would have required having you stand still for a while."

The clown knight bought it without a second thought, actually blanching at the idea. Apparently, these stories were indeed real and highly interesting.

"You… you don't mean that, right? I mean, you didn't tell her those things, right?" it asked, turning to the hound noble, whose eyes reflected either mischief or amusement. Possibly understanding and pride at the enchantress' craftiness and quick thinking. "Right? Because I can tell her about the things you did as a teenager, you know." it threatened weakly when it received no answer. "Arl Eamon would always use you as an example of what not to do when I grow up."

This caught the enchantress' attention, because it raised its eyebrows and glanced at the older human pointedly. "Really?"

"He's simply trying to save face now, Nimue; his caretakers could tell stories about his usage of this trick." The hound noble knew how to play too, apparently.

The clown knight paused just a little before recovering and retaliating; the usage of the enchantress' name seemed to have caught it by surprise, but it was determined not to back down so easily.

"Oh, really? Well, you aren't entirely perfect yourself, otherwise you wouldn't be living a bachelor lifestyle any longer! Arl Eamon would always go on about how having a wife would tame him, you know." it added with a grin at last to the keenly-listening enchantress. "He thinks he's this romantic hero, though, and always rejects all the ladies vying for his attention. Whenever there was a visit from another noble family, none of the daughters would be good enough for him. Arl Eamon almost had a fit at the antics a few of them got into."

"Now that is harsh indeed. Could you blame me for making myself scarce, with the number of cats the lady had?" Cats were actually agreeable felines, as they were natural predators towards the viler kind of birds, Shale supposed. "In any case, my brother might yet be appeased."

The enchantress looked down at the map as the hound noble said this, even though they both had the sense not to look at each other. Fortunately for them, this meant that the clown knight was left without any obvious hint as to the potential subtext behind those words and merely crossed its arms challengingly.

"That I'd like to see."

"This is where we should start." the enchantress said before this conversation could continue, pointing to a spot on the map in front of them. If that wasn't enough to silence the others, then the fact that she was leaning forward somewhat and the attire she was wearing had apparently been designed to reveal part of its mammary glands to inform potential suitors that it was indeed female worked admirably on the clown knight. Shale was rather certain that it would have stuttered greatly if it had spoken. Its head seemed near exploding, anyway. "Is there a map of the path around the clearing somewhere around here?"

The hound noble, at least, seemed to have a little dignity… or not the correct angle to observe the effect of the dress properly, which meant that it was still capable of speech. "Yes, it should be on one of the upper shelves. Alistair and I can get a ladder."

"There is no need for that; just direct me."

Before any queries to that could be posed, the enchantress straightened up, raised its arms and called upon its magic. After a few moments, all that was left of it was a swarm of insects, which proceeded to fly upwards towards the shelf in question and search for the book. The hound noble appeared thoroughly impressed and the clown knight was recovering from its heart condition – for the moment.

What Shale was most glad for was that the enchantress never seemed to choose a bird's form when flying. The small mercies in life were grand.

As this no longer seemed of any interest, Shale decided to go see if there was a storage of precious metals nearby. The fortress seemed well-crafted and properly stocked, in any case.

Several rooms away from that, the dwarf was arguing loudly with the dog, of all creatures. Shale could understand the match – after all, on an intelligence level, they were almost matched, since the hound possessed near-human intelligence even at the worst of times and the dwarf possessed the same whenever not intoxicated by the vile liquids it continued to digest without any regret or hesitation – but it was still somewhat peculiar when the subject of the debate reached her ears.

She had gotten used to the fact that the dog was capable of surprisingly eloquent non-verbal communication with its features and whines, but always wondered how the dwarf always managed to create such inventive interpretations of the aforementioned gestures.

"No, you're not getting extra food! I'm onto you, you manipulative mongrel." The dwarf was almost growling, but it wasn't entirely certain if he was intoxicated or not; it wasn't slurring its words as usual, which was an obvious improvement to its diction, but that wasn't saying much. It was an excellent actor when it came to pretending that it was sober when, in truth, it was drunk enough to kill a horse with that amount of alcohol. "That whining might work on the suckers following Nimue around like walking dead, but I know your act."

Apparently, the dwarf had saved some of its evening meal and the dog was attempting to get some of it through means of persuasion. It had to be desperate indeed if it believed that the dwarf, who considered it its arch-enemy, would relent so easily. Of course, the hound itself was far craftier than one might suspect. For one thing, it could do an innocent whine-like sound that was bound to melt the hearts of the more soft-hearted of the organics in their group, assuming they were in a good mood.

The dwarf, trying to shoo away the animal with its tankard, snorted in a way that would have disgusted anyone with even the slightest table manners.

"Oh sure, right, like you never tried to milk your relationship with her." Her being the enchantress, naturally. Being the centre of their little group, any connection to it was bound to reap rewards from those who wished to get close to it. "I know your type, mutt. You try to make them think the Warden'll be all grateful and friendly-like if they're good to you. The little pike-twirler always falls for it." Again, it made the revolting belch-like sound, its cheeks reddened slightly as it remembered with a shake of its head. "Heh. Like Nim would ever notice. Poor kid didn't get out much, obviously."

Considering that it was common knowledge that the enchantress had only recently been released from its prison – just like Shale herself, really – the golem failed to understand the joke. Perhaps the dwarf ought to be locked in the stone fortress for several decades before it made any other nonsensical jests?

But the dog didn't really try to analyze that part. Instead, it glossed over the rudeness and made another point: the clown knight wasn't the only one attempting to woo the enchantress. There was another, whose intentions were far more obvious for the rest of the world to see. Perhaps the painted elf would have more success?

The dwarf promptly snorted, ale dripping off its wire-like beard.

"What, the elf?" Knowing how guarded the Warden was and how eager to clean anyone's pipes the elf was, Oghren didn't really think there was any chance of that happening, unless they got her very, _very_ drunk. "You think that Miss Prim and Proper would just throw caution to the winds and let him get into her robes? Well, they do say mages are supposed to be pretty open to suggestion, if you know what I mean… but she hasn't yet and he's been suggesting for a while."

Ever since they had almost killed him, really. Nimue had only begun to take it seriously when it had become clear that the constant propositioning wasn't the result of one too many blows to the head and even then she still evaded it with the skill of a rogue.

"And she didn't pull the moves on me, so that just about josses that theory."

Shale privately tried to roll her eyes without too much success. Somehow, she imagined that it was likelier the enchantress would risk death and mate with the qunari – not that it would, because it _wouldn't_ – than choose the why was its mating with any male of such interest to the organics? Granted, there was little else to talk about and it was rare that an organic female in their general vicinity had more than one suitor to turn down, but still. Peculiar.

The dog wisely didn't bother deigning that remark with a response. Certainly, the enchantress wasn't nearly reckless enough to mate with someone who gave it absolutely no guarantees. But then it suggested that perhaps the clown knight would overcome its own inhibitions – which Shale doubted, as it didn't seem that the enchantress had the intention of releasing any pheromones in its direction – and proclaim its love to the elf. Apparently, the dog was convinced that the clown knight was in love with its master and had evidence: the various times it had exploited this infatuation for its own interest.

The dwarf gave a flat look that clearly stated its feelings on the matter.

"Does he even like girls?" it deadpanned. Shale was tempted to agree with the dog, because the painted elf's overtures had gone forcibly ignored and the clown knight's blood always rushed to its head when the enchantress was near. Perhaps one day the great pressure would cause its head to explode. Now that would be amusing. But then, the dwarf snickered. "Guess he does after he couldn't stop drooling over her last night. But if I were in his shoes, I'd have given her a roll already. Or tried to, at least. Sodding tight-assed ancestors, before that, he's never even shown any appreciation for her fine…"

Quickly, the dog barked out that the dwarf really didn't need to go that far, for the good of all creation. Shale was grateful for the interruption.

"Peh, shows what _you_ know about women."

It was quite a lot, in comparison to the dwarf, both Shale and the dog could testify. Especially considering the dwarf's rather peculiar choice of mates.

"It is desperate for reproduction indeed if it requires advice about females of its own species from the dog." The golem entered at long last, because the conversation had been grudgingly interesting, right up to the point when the dwarf had sent it all plummeting to hell.

The dwarf, unfazed, took a more than sufficient bite out of the remainder of its food while the dog whined in vain.

"What? Naw, we're talking about the Warden. Apparently, His _High_ness and the elf have got serious competition." It seemed highly pleased by its puns tonight. "Ya should have seen the scene they made at dinner. It was almost funnier than when we got Alistair drunk an' he almost danced on a table." the dwarf snickered, relishing in the memory. "'s too bad Nimue wasn't there that night, else she would'ave been embarrassed out of her robes by the time he got to singing."

Shale fortunately remembered no such incident, but the glint in the dwarf's eyes signified that that might soon be remedied, with the dreadfully low alcohol tolerance of the clown knight.

"I do not understand why so many males wish to reproduce with the Grey Warden." the golem confessed finally. She hoped to make sense of these things, after all. The enchantress had all its facial features in the right place, was built accordingly for an elven female of its approximate age and appeared to have no physical defects. However… "From what I have witnessed, the usual preference is for females displaying their squishy flesh bodies more prominently. Does it possess characteristics differentiating from the other females around?"

"Could be that she's a mage. You know, dangerous and all that." the dwarf grinned rather lecherously, but restrained itself before continuing. The enchantress could thank its Maker for not being the object of interest of this one when it was sober, Shale believed. "Elf girls are usually too skinny to have anything to grab onto, but compared to the rest of the women round here…"

The dog woofed to stop the dwarf once again. But then, it remarked that growing up among templars who can't even tell their socks apart has to lower one's expectations regarding women considerably – presumably, it was referring to the clown knight, who obviously had little skill at getting females to appreciate it. And as for the painted elf, the dog added, it didn't seem to want to limit itself to anything, be it age, gender, race or preference. Bar the dwarf, of course, which was entirely understandable.

Shale wondered if it was a sign of their inevitable end that the wisest member of their entourage was a four-legged canine.

The dwarf cringed, as if it was experiencing the aftereffects of its brew.

"Don't even go there, mutt. I still get nightmares cause of his sick sense of humor." it then turned to the golem, squinting a little bit. "What about you? You used to be a woman… eh, I guess. You might have an interesting guess about the situation."

Shale almost shrugged. She didn't require mating or reproduction and the concepts of such were now far from familiar to her. Still, if the phenomenon could be observed from an outsider's point of view, then the logical thing would be to select the strongest candidate. Which was kind of difficult. On the other hand, reproduction wasn't entirely desirable for the enchantress now, seeing as it would severely impede its movement and fighting capacity. If only choosing a mate was in question, though…

"The enchantress seems compatible with the two others you mention." Shale summarized. In the end, they would no doubt press it to choose, so there was no need to be overly concerned about things. "It will make its decision, given time."

"Naw, you don't understand." the dwarf said, grinning like the cat that swallowed the canary – a grin richly deserved, no doubt, given the criminal nature of birds. "The arl's younger brother – eh, Teagan's his name, right?" The dog woofed in assurance. For once, it had remembered the name correctly. "Right - he's been really, _really_ attentive to the kid tonight… and she actually noticed." For some reason, this was making the dwarf almost giddy. "Pricking Paragons, knowing her, that actually counts as being real hot and bothered for the guy."

The dog chimed in that the enchantress also seemed to behave this way once or twice towards the other possible mates.

The dwarf's bushy eyebrows disappeared in its shaggy hair. "What, are you blind as well as ugly? Compared to that, she might as well have been jumping him on the table." it proclaimed, apparently already imagining that scene and relishing in every detail of it.

While the dog persisted, Shale recalled seeing the two organics in the library. The enchantress did seem somewhat uncomfortable and aware that something was amiss… perhaps there was actually some truth to this, despite the dwarf's usual lecherous delusions.

The dog persisted, but the dwarf would have none of it.

"Bah, how'd you know what you're talking about? You could be barking mad. Hah! Barking…"

At the next growl, the dwarf slammed its half-empty tankard on the table with enough force to send the liquid flying around. Shale was highly grateful that she knew the creature well enough to stay out of its reach and aim.

"You're on, you flee-ridden nug-licker! Three roast beef dinners says she'll go for the noble." the dwarf challenged. At this point, it likely would have shaken the other's hand on the challenge, but given the four-pawed nature of its competitor, it decided against it. Who knew where those paws had been before, after all? "Give a woman the chance to do that and she'll jump straight at it, trust me."

"Is the terrible jest-telling Warden in line for the organic throne as well?" Shale inquired. As far as she was aware, this made it nobility as well.

The dwarf grimaced a little bit, but made a gesture that said enough about that. "Yeah, potentially. But unless he grows some balls and 'fesses up to Nim soon, she'll go for another guy that actually likes her tits. 'Sides, unless someone _puts_ him on the throne, he's about as royal as the mongrel here." it added, nodding towards the dog.

But the canine remained persistent in its opinion. The clown knight was in love with the enchantress, it reasoned. Given enough time, it would recognize that the painted elf – and maybe even the hound noble – presented a threat to its intentions to woo the enchantress. It would gather its courage and confess; or at least blurt it out in its usual awkward and ungraceful manner. And the enchantress would find it endearing, as it always did.

In short, three roast beef dinners on the clown knight, the dog was saying.

The dwarf grinned viciously, still unimpressed.

"We'll see who's right when you're stayin' hungry and watching me gloat, you overgrown fleebag."

"It proposes a wager on who the enchantress will copulate with in the end?" Shale was actually somewhat intrigued. This could be most interesting, if the prize was right. She had witnessed years upon years of courting and mating and even reproduction between organics of every shape and size and race.

Assuming this was worth the trouble, she could make her own guess who the enchantress would eventually mate with based on actual scientific observation and not just a hunch or a pragmatic worldview.

"That's the gist of it." the dwarf said, nodding curtly. "You wanna bet on one of them? The dog's already made his choice and threw in a prize I'll collect most gleefully."

Again, the dog barked in an obvious challenge, also confident in its choice.

"It is an interesting concept." Shale had to admit. Inwardly, she evaluated the possibilities and the percentage of chance the three candidates had of mating with the enchantress, considering its age, race and apparent general preference. "Three dead but not squashed birds on the painted elf."

"Wha- dead birds?" The dwarf's eyes turned just the slightest bit protuberant. "Why would we want dead birds?" it demanded most ignorantly.

"It is my understanding that the disgusting concept of consuming the vile fiends after ritualistically disposing of them is natural for some organics." Revolting, really, but Shale assumed that even removing the garbage was a function in the world of organics that had to be fulfilled by something or someone. She was willing to bear it, because the fiends would be killed whatever happened. "It can even select the type of bird, as long as justice is done upon them. If I win, it must find the birds for me to crush violently."

Roast duck or chicken was something that the dwarf seemed to be willing to accept. A shame that it wouldn't be pigeons, though.

"Alright, fine, that sounds good. Betting on the elf, are you?" it grinned widely, obviously believing that it had chosen the best candidate. "'s your loss."

"The enchantress is of the same species and aware of the painted elf's intention to mate with it." The former might not be important, but the latter was of clear significance. Besides, the painted elf was aggressive in its pursuit of the enchantress, meaning that some actual progress could be made there. And, unlike the hound noble, they would actually be spending a considerable amount of time together. "That is the first step of such rituals, in my experience."

The dice was cast, in any case, so there was no need to fear anyone changing their opinion. The dwarf, however, seemed content as long as the dog's win was thwarted and smirked at the canine with obvious relish and glee.

"Hah! You hear that, mongrel? You're toast!"

**o.O.o**

This is likely the last chapter before Christmas, so happy holidays if I don't get back to you guys before the end of the year! As always, here's the preview, though it might turn out inaccurate:

Chapter five: The party prepares to leave for the Dalish encampment… and Alistair does get the hint. Maybe.


	5. Questioning Ever After

If this chapter seems a little angstier and deeper than the usual standard for this fic, that's because I've been reading The Shape of Things to Come, a wonderful fic by devilherdue, which explores the relationships between characters far more deeply than most recent DA fics. So yes, Zevran-centric chapter because I felt like it and because the scene drew out to a much, much longer section than I anticipated. Fear not, Alistair and Teagan lovers; the next chapter will be focused on everyone's favorite templar and the one after that will see the return of Morrigan. And, of course, the fact that Teagan's proposal will be made official to his competition and the general party, which can only mean major panic.

So bear with me, please, and give me a little feedback, whether you like it or not. I'm proud of this chapter, darker as it is. The humor will be returning soon enough.

A merry belated Christmas to everyone!

**o.O.o**

**Questioning Ever After**

**o.O.o**

If anyone thought that the brief time they had remaining at Redcliffe castle was going to deter Leliana's efforts – whatever their aim – then that person was to be sorely mistaken. The bard had burst into Nimue's room early in the morning without excuse or explanation, practically tossing a pile of fabric at the barely-awake elf with a shark's grin and a mad glint in her eyes (or so it appeared to her audience). Though she herself was attired finely, as befitted a guest at a noble's house, she seemed to delight most in making Nimue appear more doll than woman, unnaturally groomed and ready to draw the gaze of anyone and everyone who saw her.

At least, this was the impression Zevran was getting when he saw their leader march (or stagger, depending on her degree of grace at any given moment) into the castle's gardens in the afternoon. She was both obviously running from Leliana and – less obviously – seeking some advice regarding their departure the next day. After all, the Dalish were closer kin to the two of them than any other others travelling with them, as far as blood was concerned. It might have even been better to have just the two of them approach them at first, given the attitude the nomadic elves had towards other races, let alone humans. And shemlen made up the majority of their group, which would hardly be viewed as a placating gesture.

Nimue never felt the need to announce her presence to him, because she was never able to get close quietly enough for the need to arise. In the confined space of the castle, with its barred gates and stone floors, it was even more difficult to sneak upon someone. But even without the steady clip-clop of the heels she was still being forced to wear, she held no pretentions to being able to outmatch the assassin in a game of hide and seek. This awareness, almost preternatural to her, appeared as easy as breathing to him, as natural as her magic to her. Whenever she looked at him, he met her eyes readily, as if gifted with precognition.

In those moments, she readily thanked whatever supernatural entity was watching over her – be it the Maker, the Creators or some benevolent Fade spirit – that she had taken every care to extend the laurels of peace along with a hand of friendship to this man. Because if he had tried anything more conventional than a full-frontal assault on her (not usually what one associated with assassin standards, really), there was the distinct likelihood that a sharp metal object would be adorning her ribcage before she had the time to even draw breath for a spell.

As things stood, all that got sent her way was another of the many penetrating stares that had a way of making a person feel distinctly uncomfortable, for reasons that varied almost as much as the intentions behind them.

It was always her own eyes that these looks were focused on, though, even if he swept her unconventional attire with a glance that one might attribute to a cartographer preparing to map out their territory.

"You have evaded your noble captors for long enough to escape the castle itself? Spending so much time in Leliana's company seems to have paid off, I see."

"I was hoping to speak with you before we leave."

If she had chosen to do so the day before, containing his own stare at the sight of her would have been a difficult task even for the easy cover-up his practiced ways. They were like a second skin now, after all these years, both shielding (shutting out) and ready to reflect a few of the thorns send that way; nothing worth paying attention to. But she was like a mirror, this one, always returning the barbs, always with the retaliations; some of the quips, rebounding so much, must have ricocheted their way past his potent defenses eventually.

Because the passing fancy for her smile refused to fade away, even now – _especially now_ – when all that made her Nimue had been smoothed out and replaced with what the ignorant would consider beauty.

The dagger he had been holding hit the nearest tree with a thud, faster than her eye could see, and then, Zevran was smiling at her, as if this were nothing, as if the whole world could come crashing around their ears right now and it wouldn't really matter, because _this was now_.

"You have my rapt attention."

This scared the mage more than she would admit.

"With luck, we'll find one of the clans within a few weeks. I wanted to ask if you know anything more about them than you already said." The stories about his adventures, as she called them, with her innocent (_no longer_) eyes, had remained imprinted in her mind deeply. "You said your mother was one."

_Oldest tale in the book…_

A princess is born, sent to the tallest tower, waiting for a prince to slay the dragon guarding her and rescue her from this imprisonment.

If Nimue had waited for a prince, she would have been one of the broken abominations lying dead on the tower's floor now. And, in the end, if she wasn't a princess, she could never have a happy ending with one who was of royal blood, could she now? Zevran took some grim satisfaction in that fact, along with knowing that the mage realized as such, because she had been broken into believing that there would never be happiness for those _cursed_ with magic.

_It was to be the Circle and I till death do us part. __Strange, isn't it? I chose to save a hated spouse from death instead of freeing myself._

And such jealousy their respective owners could display…

"I also mentioned that she was my first victim, so to speak." Nimue did have a tendency of remembering only things that were convenient to her, then forgetting them just as quickly until a new need for the information arose. From the crease near her brow, Zevran couldn't really tell if she had remembered this time and had simply hoped that this wasn't the case. It seemed that way, nonetheless. "You would know more than I, most likely."

"The Circle's library isn't particularly broad on that subject." Her hands were slight enough to have made her a pickpocket par excellence in a different lifetime, for all the power they held in this. She dusted a nearby bench absent-mindedly and, contrary to her previous concerns about her gown, sat down without pomp or ceremony. "I only remember a few tales from the alienage, that's all. From what I know, they welcome their own kind, assuming they have chosen to forsake cities."

Perhaps as a child, she had been forced to put her fingers to such use. It was difficult to imagine her in rags and powerless, but Zevran had seen enough of his own kind – those that had accepted the human way of things – thrust into similar fates that the picture wasn't entirely foreign. She did stare a bit too intensely at the weapons he was putting aside for the time being, as if remembering something that shouldn't have been forgotten, but got lost along the way.

"You have given the idea some thought."

Anyone with half a brain and living in an alienage would. Those precious few that had managed to get through their magical training without having the Chantry doctrine beaten into them certainly must have; Zevran had the small fortune of rarely seeing the bars of his cage. But the entrapment in a fortress of stone with no doors and sealed windows would surely have been enough to drive weaker minds mad. Certainly that said as much about their Warden as it did about those imprisoning her.

When she shrugged, the fabric of her gown shifted slightly, offering a glimpse of pale skin. Even dressed as a human, there was an unmistakable individuality in her that refused to subside, no matter how a hairstyle would cleverly cover up the pointed tips of her ears.

In Antiva, where blondes were rare enough to be considered an ideal of beauty, pale skin remained a sign of high-breeding and the danger of murder pulsing through a woman's veins was one of the greatest ways to heighten the anticipation of excitement, men would have most likely mobbed her on the street in an attempt to gain a fraction of her favor.

These Fereldans, with their warped standards…

"At times. Haven't you?" Nimue asked, her head tilting slightly in interest. Usually, it took a heavy tome of arcane technique or a particularly ugly statue to get such a gesture out of her.

The assassin did his best to keep the wryness out of his indulgent smile. One whose walls and guards had been clearly visible and defined would probably not see much point in attempting to escape. But when the only bars in your way were legends and whispers, when only reputation and not swords preceded your killers, then it was easy to believe you were free and could vanish at a moment's notice.

Of course, you had to forget all that was common knowledge – and sense – in Antiva to dare anything more than dream of escaping the Crows, unless you truly longed for death, as he had.

A second dagger made contact with the tree's trunk, at a distance approximately accurate to that of a human's heart from their already-pierced jugular. As the mage was seated, the flinching motion passing through her wasn't nearly as obvious as it could have been otherwise.

"My pursuers would have been able to track me just as efficiently as the templars would have done to you." After having met Ignacio, even their leader could appreciate the finer aspects of subtlety the Crows were capable of. Spotting one of them in the crowd was next to impossible, unless they wished for you to know of their approach. "More so, I dare say, as they wouldn't blindly charge after me in plain sight and eye-catching uniforms. I never considered that I might be given the possibility of escaping them without having to lay down my life."

Before the massacre in the tower, before having demon-possessed templars (but templars nonetheless) charge at her with weapons raised and death in their eyes, Nimue might not have understood the desperation that accompanied such struggles. But the way Zevran spoke so casually about his own demise gave her a thought.

"But you were ready to do just that, if it meant freedom."

Finally, the assassin glanced at her once more and she wouldn't have been able to move from her spot even if she had the intention. Many would have mistaken it for pure hardness, but she had seen that sentiment reflected in many mirrors on not one night in the tower.

"Your friend Jowan would have us believe you once hoped the same." It was a mere observation, but the suddenly broken eye contact was an answer in itself.

Before being sent off to his doom, the apostate had spoken briefly to their leader. As this was one of the few links to her past life they were about to witness up close, Zevran had taken care to observe the doomed man with the appropriate attention. His being human wasn't entirely surprising, as it was common knowledge that race was superseded by the ability to do magic in anyone's eyes and the Circle treated this accordingly – there was far less racial bigotry among the mages. Tall, skinny after his imprisonment (though it didn't seem as though he had ever been less than wraith-pale, like Nimue herself) with dark hair and eyes that had seen too much horror over a short time.

All mages released from their tower had that look nowadays.

But this one had called Nimue friend even as she herself sentenced him, the cold sorrow in her face unprecedented, not to be repeated. Only after this incident did she heal the thin wound near her right eye that blood magic had caused, a reminder of this past. She was washing her hands of the events, figuratively, choosing to look forward only and take the plunge into the present.

Having one's scars slowly healed instead of learning to ignore and live with them was worth at least a little envy. It perhaps helped that there had been no trace of anything besides broken friendship in their parting eyes, but they had found the closure Zevran would never receive. His own betrayal offered no possibility of atonement, because not even magic could warrant speaking to the dead.

But the woman who sighed was not Rinna; she knew nothing of being cast down from an imaginary pedestal by a dagger in the ribs, even though she had lost much.

"I was naïve and overconfident." The former rang untrue for either of them, but the latter, they shared, perhaps in the present. They were supposed to be the best, the brightest, the most promising; it had been difficult to picture how quickly the carefully-built houses of cards that made up their confined existence could be blown away. "The moment you believe you rule your magic is when you are proven wrong."

Whispers at the edge of dreams. Demons lurking in the shadows of one's mind.

_True tests never end._

"Wynne believes otherwise. You are capable of keeping your calm in the face of foes that would frighten many a trained warrior." Yet she flinched again (though more subtly – she was learning) when yet another dagger swished through the air. Even if she could hear it before she saw it this time.

Everyone seemed ready to believe that Nimue could stand up to the Fade's demons without breaking a sweat. That is, mostly those who knew nothing of demons, the real as well as the figurative ones. But even Wynne believed, even if it perhaps said more about her own willingness to hope Ferelden had a savior in the making rather than the younger mage, who never fell asleep before midday and who carefully snuck off in the early morning to watch the sunrise.

"Sometimes I wonder how come my dreams don't tear the Veil accidentally."

Nimue didn't really know why she was saying things better spoken of to Wynne or even Morrigan to someone who knew very little of magic the way she perceived it. But whenever the conversation topic didn't steer towards her neckline, she knew the assassin would have many things to say that would come in useful, without any judgment or expectations. Mentioning that she actually felt comfortable talking to him would have no doubt drawn much surprise from the others, who had never managed to fight their way past his favorite method of deflecting any attempt at conversation due to sheer frustration.

"I suppose you can get used even to dreaming about mutated Old Gods in dragon form. It's peculiar, having dreams without conscious will. How can you stand it?"

Now that was a surprise; the next dagger almost missed its target – the figurative eye – and landed square in the middle of the imagined forehead. "Mm? You've never had dreams before?"

That would explain quite a few things, actually, not just (but _particularly_) about her; about magi in general.

"Mages enter the Fade at will, not just in dreams." Simple words, no evasiveness, calm, still waters instead of frost and ice. This was the truth. "While we can't control what we see there, we can influence events. I've only had dreams since…" she didn't finish the thought.

While the Joining (a most peculiar choice of name for a ritual so secret, yet apparently so quick and potentially lethal) was hardly common knowledge, the fact that there were only two Wardens remaining in Ferelden and one seemed as capable at stealth and quiet speech as their warhound was at fencing… let it simply be said that Zevran had learned quite a lot about the Grey Wardens in the past months, some things through simple observation (choosing the subject to observe _purely_ on the basis that she had been afflicted for a shorter time and was the more aesthetically pleasing alternative), others thanks to loud conversations.

Dreaming of archdemons could hardly be comforting, especially if she had no experience with dreams of any kind, let alone good ones.

With the experience of a hunter trying his best not to alert a yet oblivious prey to a foreign presence, Zevran maintained a socially acceptable distance (for Ferelden, anyway) as he sat down near her. The daggers weren't in dire need of some words, after all, nor did he have a personal interest in their good disposition towards him, provided they served as his extended arm.

"I would say it is part of being a Grey Warden, overcoming hardships most people never have to deal with. But you wish for the truth, I take it?" Silence could count as an answer or a severely impolite lack of attention, which the careful next step could remedy. "Truthfully… you should smile more, my dear." Instead of her brow, her fingers twitched in a motion that may or may not have been preparation for a quick spell. But the motion died, along with the intention to edge away from the hand keeping her head at an angle where she was forced to look at Zevran or seem very impolite. "Save your frowns and dark glances for the archdemon. By the time you encounter it, they will no doubt be sufficient to slay it without you needing to lift a finger."

Finally, Nimue drew back and returned to her original position before her imagination had the time to wake up from its usual stupor and suggest that they had gone through an entire conversation without one reference to her without clothes. That had to count for something.

"I haven't had too many reasons to smile. Well… not just now. It's always seemed somewhat unnecessary to me. If something pleases you, it's better to say so."

Reason suggested that she take offense to the fact that Zevran laughed at her, even as he swung off the bench with all the grace her current footwear had sapped from her. "That is the time you've spent around constipated templars showing, my dear. There, you see?" Honestly, the man had to be hiding a second pair of eyes under that long hair if he saw the quiet snicker; Morrigan would no doubt attest to that, given how much time she claimed the assassin spent on grooming it. "Much better."

This time, she could let it go. If it meant they could stop talking about darkspawn and Jowan… and Nimue wasn't entirely certain which of those two topics was worse or had more potential for pain.

"You bring out the best of me when you put your mind to it. Just don't tell Wynne I said that, or she'll have my ears." For safety reasons, Nimue's eyes very briefly swept the courtyard, improbable as it was that the senior enchanter might be anywhere nearby. After all, part of the gardens was visible from the higher floors of the castle, where most of them had their temporary rooms. And, by now, Wynne knew better than to try and initiate even a semi-serious conversation with Zevran if she wasn't prepared for fighting off comments about the marvels of her apparently high-standard bosom.

Of course, she might be persuaded to come down if Nimue's presence was attested to, with her being the long-running prime target for conversations of this nature.

"We can't have that, can we? Especially after Leliana went through so much trouble to arrange your hair in such a lovely human fashion." To make her seem more acceptable for the human surroundings or for her own particular brand of amusement? Now that was indeed a fair question. While their leader treated the bard with wary acceptance, she maintained a cordial distance that sheer disdain for Chantry zealots didn't fully explain.

Perhaps she was not quite as inattentive to these impulses as she would have them all believe, but the new developments had muddled the clear view of the playing field. With her own intentions remaining unclear, Leliana could manipulate her way past all of their perceptions of things and secure the outcome she wished. Unless a counter-maneuver was employed, of course.

At least Nimue didn't seem to have a fancy for the pretty if useless clothing she seemed bombarded with nowadays and spared her current fashionably human attire a glance of disdain.

"I feel like her mannequin." she muttered, not quite understanding how a person could put up with this amount of sequins on a daily basis without damaging their eyesight, at the very least. "It's not too comfortable."

"Comfort isn't a word Orlesians would recognize, I imagine." Especially when style had the chance of superseding it.

Zevran watched with amusement as the final straw came in the form of stray hair in the Warden's eyes – which she loathed – and their normally calm and collected leader proceeded to almost rip the clasp binding her hair out. How come the nearly violent motion didn't result in a chunk of hair ending up twisted around the accessory was inexplicable, but the way she proceeded to free her hair from the impractical braid was almost comical. Spending too much time around dogs who rid themselves of anything trapped in their fur by twisting around until it was gone had clearly made a certain lasting impression on the mage.

"I do wonder why you would consent to such fashions when we are to leave on the morrow." Tousled as Nimue's hair was, it allowed the tips of her ears to resurface and it was her once again, not the painted doll Leliana was struggling to present to perfection. What warped standards these humans had if they couldn't appreciate what would usually be an indication of a decidedly sleepless night, the assassin would never know. "I fear that we might actually be thrown out if you continue outshining the lady of the castle so regularly."

Usually, the thinning of the fair Warden's lips signified that she intended to say something entirely different to her actual response, but chose not to. "There are reasons."

Of course there were; doubtless Leliana had some. As did the person who had chosen these clothes for Nimue – be it the shrieking lady of the castle or the visiting lord whose eyes lingered on the young woman to the point that even she couldn't ignore them. But requesting simpler attire would have been a request no one could have denied their _champion_, especially not if she insisted. Therefore she had to have some reasons of her own, which was the interesting part.

As was finding out the fun part, really; Zevran once more awarded her with the smile she had learned to steel herself against.

"If it is for my benefit, then I appreciate the sentiment, unnecessary as it is. Your beauty would be just as bright even in the filthiest rags as it is in a golden gown." Before he could add something along the lines of clothing only diminishing her beauty, there was that carefully calculated patience in her eyes that he often witnessed during the more dire spats between Alistair and Morrigan. Mindreading was entirely possible in those moments, especially since her energy was focused on maintaining a façade of calm and not making it seem that she wasn't doing just that. "Punishing words of truth is hardly befitting a Grey Warden, you know."

_I am calm. I am stillness. I am water._

_I will not succumb to the urge to call upon an army of demons to resolve my trivial problems._

_No matter how tempting it might be at the present moment._

_It would be much too embarrassing if I had to spend eternity with another creature living in my head and we wouldn't get along.__ While here, I might not survive the apocalypse._

_Breathe. _

This rather nihilistic train of thought fortunately ended up broken and lost literally in the blink of an eye, as Nimue heard another dagger make impact with a potentially lethal spot, if its target were a person and not in fact a tree.

"How do you do that?" She was rather bewildered that Zevran, of all people, could give her the time to cool down and retaliate properly instead of rushing into things. As with all things she couldn't comprehend, Nimue remained intrigued. "I never understand it."

How did he not see her as the quaint little label others were so quick to staple to her forehead to categorize and file her? Zevran wasn't quite certain, actually. Perhaps it was the quirk of her smile that wiped away any trace of her mask, or the sustenance for the journey this provided him with. Just one more word, one more step, and there would be yet another scrap to get by. He had traded a master he had never chosen for one who had been a slave herself and thus couldn't condone such things.

Perhaps she was a benevolent tyrant precisely because of these things; knowing that the leash could snap back at any time, that one misstep could summon the hounds that wouldn't stop until their blood fed the flowers of the earth…

Zevran buried these thoughts beneath the image of her, a sight he drank deeply. She was nothing like the Antivan beauties that his homeland was fabled for, dark and delicious, or the women he usually seduced. Those were most often humans, falling prey to his own particular brand of charm quicker than a fly would soar towards honey. Even attired as one of them and surrounded by their influence, Nimue remained a fish out of water, sticking out like an amateur assassin in a crowd.

A fish and a bird might love one another… but where would they live together?

"I'd almost say it's magic, but I'd feel that." Nimue continued, "You have incredible speed and dexterity."

"This, you mean?" Spinning the remaining dagger between his fingers with almost idle nonchalance, the assassin proceeded to retrieve the remaining weapons from their spots in the tree. If Nimue had tried, she would have likely been forced to summon help to pull even a single one out. "Practice. Years and years of it, in fact. I could try and teach you, but I doubt you have the time or the patience. Besides… you dislike blades." The mage looked utterly bewildered, but didn't even make a sporting attempt at a denial. "There is no need to be ashamed of it. But I do find it peculiar that you can make a creature explode without batting an eyelash, but the thought of cutting someone brings you unease."

To gain any semblance of balance, Nimue slid off the ribbon-adorned Orlesian shoes she was still being forced to wear and stood up, crossing the small distance to the weapons Zevran had discarded before starting this rudimentary practice with much more ease than that upon her arrival. She picked up one of the twin swords the assassin usually wielded in close combat with the bluntness of the uninitiated and unsheathed it in a manner that suggested she was daring it to bite her. But her grip was steady, if uncertain, and carefully mimicked after months upon months of watching others wield such weapons.

"Before the Blight… I had never killed anything. Aside from squishing a few bugs, of course, but even then, we'd sooner catch them for experiments than harm them." There was an odd tension to her face, like a fabric spread out so tightly, it was ready to rip. Seeing a person watching a weapon and struggling not to recall the many lives it must have ended was an odd experience, but Nimue seemed to practically be trying to will the very blade out of existence. "It just… feels more real." Blinking a few times, as if awakening from a drugged stupor, she returned the blade to its sheath and returned it to its place on the other bench. She had looked at it like one would at a display in a museum; something that didn't belong into her hands at all. "I don't know."

The Crows stood by the philosophy that experience was the best teacher; you were either born to fight or born to die. Which one was to be your fate was decided the moment practice was over and you were thrown to the mercy of the world – and your fellow initiates. Once again, it seemed that someone shared his incredible luck, by the simple virtue of not having been born in the wrong part of Thedas. After all, elves were prime candidates for the assassins due to their appeal and the way she had learned to mimic and anticipate their movements…

He'd really have to make certain that their little bird wouldn't choose to fly off in the direction of Antiva once their quest was over, especially with the opportunistic way Ignacio had looked at her. The _respect_ he had never shown any Crow – at least in Zevran's rather long experience – the little weasel didn't hesitate to display to their fair Warden. It was something to be wary of, if the Crows were indeed so interested in her. Catching their eye in any way was a dangerous thing, but as a potential recruit…

"You could attempt to seek the Dalish out once the Blight is over." the assassin suggested, returning all the blades to the carefully-arranged supply.

Better to quench these fires quickly, in case they have the potential for spreading. Besides, following her to Antiva would be somewhat problematic even (_especially_) for the likes of him, given the information he still had from Ignacio. Despite this, Zevran continued to hope that Taliesen wouldn't try to complete the fool's errand of seeking Nimue out and challenging her, especially with the other Crows interested in her survival. That would truly be a messy deal, having to choose between saving the life of a friend or that of… what was she to him, really?

A decidedly non-sporting target for his lust, if only to prove that she was as flesh-and-blood as the rest of them? An amiable master to whom he was honor-bound, who never specified any rules to their arrangement? A friend who had shown him nothing but wary kindness and curiosity?

Yet with her pensive expression at the suggestion of a life free of all constraints, she was, first and foremost, Not-Rinna, the antithesis of the distant memory of love and hope.

"Assuming you survive, that is. I am certain they would be most welcoming of a hero. Then you could finally be persuaded to wear that intriguing armor they seem fond of." Zevran added, so that there couldn't be any deeper sentiment found beneath his studious gaze. It was highly fortunate, then, that it was most easy to show so without any pretense. "It seems to invite rather than intimidate. Curious."

Given her interest in the sudden suggestion, Nimue completely glossed over the possible implications without as much as a pause.

"Would you?" And this was cheating, asking for another's opinion while refusing to offer the same courtesy. She was learning. "You said you wanted to search for a new beginning. Perhaps this could be the way. The Dalish never stay in one place for long… and their communities would hardly be ill-protected against possible assassins." And they would see much of the world, though perhaps not in the way she would hope. A nomadic life among animals and trees, living as one with the nature…

It was quite a contrast to the life in a walled fortress (though she would be free to come and go), to be revered as a hero and yet paraded as someone's wife, put above her own kind in the eyes of the very different beasts she would be living in and reminded of her good fortune at every turn. And the Dalish had their own magic, their keepers (she thought that was the word), who could have knowledge of the past she had only made up to herself to make her own history (of magic) lessons seem more interesting.

The elegant shrug she received in response didn't really give her much of an actual opinion. "It is a possibility to consider, certainly. As it is, the Crows might still show up and claim both our heads before such a thing happens. But if it came to that, it would also depend on the company." There was a balance between intruding on one's personal space and approaching slowly, waiting for the barest sign to stop; Zevran managed to achieve this if proceeding with care. No sign of any kind came from the young woman, attentive as she had learned to be in cases such as these. "You couldn't expect me to just walk off with a band of unfamiliar people, could you now? I would be upset if that were the case."

The way she skillfully grabbed onto every chance to twist the conversation away from seriousness until she became comfortable with it was also a coping mechanism unlike anything Zevran had witnessed in a woman – or person, really – before, even with her wickedest of smiles. "With no bosom to cry on, I take it?"

Too innocent to be a yes, too sparkling to be a no. Certainly too daring to mean nothing.

"I wouldn't go that far, perhaps, but it certainly wouldn't be a bosom as fine as it could be." Despite being circled, Nimue appeared calm. Bizarrely, once she was ready for these comments and understood them to be a game, the mage could handle it without problems and even return a strike or two. It was the moments when the line between game and reality seemed to blur that caused her high unease, even if she managed to convince herself otherwise afterwards. "Our time together has set a rather high standard on that account."

"Oghren is that high a standard?" Zevran stopped sharply, the mask of nonchalance and potentially lecherous interest cracking in two just at an angle where his prey could spot it most easily. "Ah, so there are things that can shock even you. I'll have to remember that."

_Maybe she'll trust you, maybe she'll understand you, maybe she'll laugh with you, but she'll not come within reach_, the sing-song of Rinna's voice echoed, but the sound was drowned out by the reality of the woman who was nothing like her laughing with merriment, despite his quick recovery to the jibe.

"That was a low, underhanded blow." And once the horrors of it were forgotten in light of their continued proximity, the slow grip continued to spread on the assassin's face as he stopped his pacing. It was even praiseworthy, the way she had remembered his idle mocking of the dwarf's general attempts at conversation. "A masterpiece. Are there any other hidden talents of yours I should know of?"

"Unless you count a penchant for getting into needless trouble…" That didn't necessarily count as a hidden talent, but her ability to deal with the trouble in question certainly was. "Then no, absolutely none, I'm proud to say. I've only had a limited time to learn."

With time and training, she could be anything she wished and have anything she desired, without some human who would always consider her an exotic accessory (to some degree, in the deepest depths of his heart) and not an equal (which she would never be, of course). Thinking that he deserved her was presumptuous as well, but then again, humbled as he had been by his failure to protect Rinna, Zevran wasn't anywhere near selfless enough to believe anything he fancied was too far above him.

"Would you like to?" he asked, watching the smile he delighted in freeze into confusion. "Leave everything behind; the Circle, the Wardens, for the time being, and simply wander the world?" After the Blight, most likely but even now, it was a valid question.

Instead of the many dark promises that usually came in place of an answer to the question only Wynne had cynically voiced (_And what would you do if you had me?_), there was a question in return (_Would you give yourself to me alone if the opportunity arose?_).

The game was over.

Nimue could no longer draw breath without forcing the motion like an unnatural impulse. Without the chance to deflect, to evade, to stall, the question pierced right through her as those daggers should have, once upon a time.

And, for a moment, she _was_ Rinna, dying with love in her eyes and forgiveness in her heart, but dying nonetheless.

"I can't." she said to the ground with less conviction that even Alistair would be persuaded by and, forgetting the bareness of her feet, forgetting her own ability to transform into any manner of beast or bird, walked away as swiftly as she could without breaking into a run.

This time, Zevran watched her slip away, still feeling the sudden unexpected stab of the look he hoped never to witness again; even if he had imagined the similarity, it was a thing to be considered. Especially since the time would soon come to tell the fair Warden this last of secrets, considering most of hers were likely in his possession already.

_You know how to hunt, but not how to tame. To kill, but not to capture. _Rinna smiled. _She will run again._

But the smile she had given had eclipsed the fear and the chase, even the memory of despair and ancient wounds. And it was that she _couldn't_ – or so she believed – not that she _didn't want to._ Which didn't necessarily imply anything beyond obstacles. And what was the life of an assassin if not the removal of _obstacles_, in any sense of the word?

At the silence of the voice of the past, the hunter in Zevran awoke as he watched his prize retreat hastily, a skilled observation showing the signs of hesitation and doubt and pondering.

No, he decided firmly as even her slender silhouette retreated into the grey walls. This game was _far_ from over.


	6. Ever After Interrupted

As promised, the Alistair-focused chapter is here!

And, keeping with the promise, another party member makes their appearance. Certainly squees are to follow.

Now, for purposes of clarification; Nimue isn't completely oblivious to Alistair's feelings, nor is she trying her best to shut them out without reason. But, in light of everything that's been happening, she isn't being as attentive as she could be (especially with the engagement possibility looming over her head). I suppose she also thinks that Alistair might know about the proposal and when you add to that that he hasn't done anything nearly definite against Zevran's far more obvious overtures towards her…

Yes, she doesn't really view it as anything other than perhaps overly zealous friendship or just a faint déjà vu of the Cullen situation, with less creepy outcomes. Make of that what you will.

Aside from that, I've managed to plan out at least half of this fic, right up to the party's return to Redcliffe and Nimue's answer. The consequences of that will be spread out in a few more chapters, because I truly don't know how this thing will end yet, but I have some ideas. It also depends on the voting thing… which Teagan is winning steadily. Teagan/Nimue seems to have a large shipping community. Wynne, Leliana and Oghren approve. Especially if you throw some roast beef into the deal.

Feel free to vote, because the poll is still open, ladies and gents! And review, of course! Happy New Year to everyone!

**o.O.o**

**Ever After Interrupted**

**o.O.o**

One would think that it would be easier to find a single person in a stone castle the seeker had grown up in and thus knew every crook and crevice of. Especially if the person being sought out was wearing a highly eye-catching gown and shoes that seemed designed to be the bane of any and every rogue to ever try and sneak around while dressed as a woman of rank.

Alistair was discovering that such an assumption would be quite a nasty lie. Apparently, locating someone who was trying to flee Leliana's keen eyes and fine sneaking abilities was a chore. A labor, really. Especially since not a single one of the servants or their companions (those he had managed to locate, anyway) were able to say where she might be and the mabari warhound that seemed able to track her very scent even in the deepest bogs was decidedly unavailable as well.

So much for trying to surprise her pleasantly, the newly-rehabilitated prince thought to himself as he passed what was apparently a clean-up team for the mess Oghren and the aforementioned warhound had left after the latest lunch. Not for the first time, he was highly grateful that they weren't at camp and that tonight wasn't his dishwashing duty. He still didn't fully trust Wynne's assurance that magic couldn't be used for that purpose, because she most decidedly enjoyed watching him squirm.

Especially when it was related to the velvet-clad figure that seemed to be practically fleeing along the corridor a few meters ahead of him.

Alistair couldn't help the small grin upon seeing his target; for the noble-lady-like gown she was wearing, she had the air of someone who had just hacked her way through a swamp about her. And her hair was definitely arranged in a way that suggested more swamp witch than socialite. Or warrior, really.

She was fleeing their Chantry sister, though, so just a hint of desperation was highly appropriate for the situation.

"There you are!" Nimue stopped rather sharply, as if she hadn't even noticed that there was anyone in the corridor before. Thankfully, she didn't bolt just yet, which meant that they had a little time before their roguish lay sister caught up with them. "I saw Leliana looking for you. Trying to evade a bard, eh?" That certainly was something to be impressed by, if she had managed to succeed for this long. "Your stealth skills seem to have improved somewhat."

Maker knew the quick smile he received for that would have been highly detrimental to any sneaking he might be doing. Which, fortunately, he wasn't.

"I hope so." When the elf glanced around, her tousled hair whipped around her face gently. Alistair felt a vague tingling in his fingers, an itching to carefully comb out the tangles and knots in the soft mass, if only to be allowed to touch it. "I should keep moving, though, lest she catches up and gives me hell about my hair."

"I like it the way it is." Thank the Maker that Nimue didn't notice the faint longing in his tone, of her amused but doubting glance was anything to go by. "No, really. You don't think darkspawn are going to be frightened by ribbons, are you? Maybe the pink ones… I know I'd back down if I was threatened by such weapons."

The image of ribbon-adorned darkspawn fleeing from the wrath of a giggling Leliana – or perhaps a gaggle of similarly attired Grey Wardens – was enough to make Nimue forget whatever had been troubling her, at least for a moment or so.

"They'd go well with your dress, I'm certain."

"Huh, you still remember that?" Alistair's senses always muddled slightly when he got to hear the highly rare sound of her laughter, but at such proximity with him being the cause… well, it was reason enough for a small goofy smile of his own.

"It would be difficult not to. I can already imagine the coronation." Arl Eamon likely wouldn't allow it, but Nimue was remembering the proclamations of Carroll the temporary ferryman that he was the queen of Antiva. It made more sense in context, of course, but still, she could just see the tee parties between the two monarchs, despite one being rather lyrium-addled and possibly insane.

Nimue decidedly didn't want to think about the distant kingdom – or people that had come from there – at that present moment.

Fortunately, Alistair didn't remember that particular conversation too well and it wasn't the first thing that came to his mind upon the suggestion. Instead, he remembered that first mission they had been sent on together, which was meant to have ended the Blight and prevented all these needless deaths. _Duncan_ standing over them, sighing with more idle frustration than dejection upon seeing that both new Wardens still had some trace of humor in them, despite the high probability of death for a portion of their current entourage.

Duncan… would he have approved of him being a candidate for the throne once again? Had he known that, in bringing Nimue to the Wardens, he had single-handedly created the means of sabotaging exactly that plan?

Nothing was certain.

"Eh, don't even remind me of that." It would have to be a pretty dress, though, Alistair would insist if pressured. Rather like the one (_don't look, don't look_) she was wearing now, except perhaps with different ornaments. "I still don't think it's the best idea." Finally, Alistair saw a trace of skin under the hem of her gown as she took a step forward, which explained her strangely soundless movement. "Are you barefoot? Where are your shoes?"

Blinking, Nimue glanced at her own feet, as if this fact surprised even her. "Oh, I was… I was walking around the gardens and I took them off." She said it so matter-of-factly, Alistair couldn't help but grin.

"And they say elves loving nature are merely folk-tales." Of course, he remembered the many instances when their normally unfazed leader would just stop and stare at a tree or a flower for hours, as if she had never seen one before. And then, when he had called her out on it, she confirmed it as truth. That she had seen only pictures of such things. "Well, come on, we can go back and get them."

Utterly against any expectations, he might as well have offered her a poisonous snake, if the way the mage jumped was any indication.

"No! No, that's all right." Fortunately, Alistair couldn't help but be powerless against repeated (and gentler) assurances, especially when backed up with the logic that was her second nature. "I like being able to run in case Leliana comes by. But I'm sorry, you needed something from me?"

That was a dangerously open question; some of the potential answers made Alistair's face color faintly. Partly out of embarrassment over thinking such things, partly out of the supposition what others (read: _Zevran_) might have answered the query with.

But Nimue was waiting, only slightly wary of the possibility of anyone approaching rather than whatever answer she was going to receive, so Alistair did his best to seek out the already-vanishing train of thought.

"Not necessarily needed… well, yes." Raised eyebrows. Damn, she was onto him. Best to spill the unpleasant part of the beans now, at least. "I wanted to ask if you know where Morrigan wandered off. Not that I miss her or anything and if you finally sent her away I'm willing to start a party, but it's somewhat… unusual… not to see her skulking around and hissing at everything like an angry wildcat."

"She went into the village and to the outskirts as well, I imagine." Nimue explained, carefully continuing down the mercifully bard and assassin-free corridor. "She mentioned the demon acted rather peculiarly and wished to investigate. I had no reason to stop her from doing so."

If there was one thing Alistair most certainly didn't understand, it was how come someone who got along close to fabulously with Wynne (despite their differences in opinion regarding many magic-related things) got along even better with someone like Morrigan. Of all people, the swamp witch, closely followed by the assassin who had very nearly succeeded in his job; these two were apparently among her closest confidantes.

"You know she might have just gone there to take some pointers, right?" And she was mean. And evil. Eee-vil. Never satisfied with anything any of them did, but still interested in sticking around to make this opinion known. "I mean, possessing and controlling people and all that seems like the family business, if what we've seen is true. At any rate, I wouldn't be sorry if it was the last time we saw of her."

"So you've been saying ever since we left Flemeth's hut." And Nimue fully expected this to go on until the very end, which was why she had learned to try her hardest to not get involved with either side of the argument. Keeping to the golden middle path wasn't always easy, of course.

Alistair, for his part, had the good grace to look at least slightly sheepish, if only about the childishness of this repeated claim.

"Yes, well, she got what she wanted, her mother is dead… ish, so I don't really understand why she chooses to remain." It was highly suspicious, especially since she, of all people, had nothing tying her to this quest any longer. But thinking of Morrigan right now would lead only to anger and confusion, which was most decidedly not a sentiment Alistair wished to associate with the sight of her polar opposite walking beside him. The two could simply negate each other. "At any rate, I didn't only want to talk about Morrigan. In fact, let's not talk about her."

This far into the argument, Nimue didn't even bother shrugging.

"As long as we keep moving." For good measure, she glanced once more to both sides to see if hiding behind the templar would be necessary in the near future.

"Right. Actually, I wanted to talk to you about the whole king affair. You don't _really_ think it's a good idea, do you?" Alistair asked this slowly, as if that could make her realize what a Really Bad Suggestion this was. Nimue hadn't disagreed with Arl Eamon on that account when the decision had been made, but she didn't seem to endorse it overly either. At last, not to his knowledge. "I wouldn't be able to lead us to lunch, let alone make decisions for a whole country."

There was a vague hint of indulgence in the smile the elf offered, but it didn't change the way it emitted warmth. "If the lunch involved cheese, I wouldn't be so sure."

Stab wounds to the pride first, now those to the taste. Well, Alistair could just bet that the Circle tower simply didn't have quality cheese supplies, if she took the matter of any cuisine it involved so lightly.

"Now that would depend entirely on the kind of cheese. You have to think quality." Alistair, connoisseur of fine cheese extraordinaire, noted with expertise. At least it was met with fainter indulgence than anyone (Wynne including) would have displayed. "Seriously, though, it would take a weight off my chest to hear your actual opinion on this, because I know you wouldn't defy logic and speak up in front of Arl Eamon without an argument to back up. Just… tell me what you really think… please?" Alistair hadn't had the chance to try out his best whining voice on Nimue yet, but it had worked on Wynne…

Unfortunately, Nimue, owner of a highly manipulative mabari warhound, was not at all unused to the notion of whining and puppy-dog glances, which meant that she glossed over the notion as if Alistair hadn't even tried at all. Perhaps she hadn't even noticed; it was difficult to tell.

"I don't really know that much about politics; it isn't encouraged for mages." Not that the idea hadn't crossed her mind, of course, or that she hadn't tried her best to catch up – as it was necessary – given the recent events. "But I think that you have the makings of a good monarch, provided you devote yourself to your country as you have to the Grey Wardens."

That was a yes. Which certainly wasn't a good thing, considering the circumstances. But seeing that she had faith in him (especially given Morrigan's frequent taunts that he'd never be able to understand the complexities of what Nimue considered natural)…

It was an encouraging thought.

"That's easy for you to say. You don't have to try and convince the same high-nosed nobles that sneered at you your whole life that you have the right to take over the show from them." Although it wasn't a stretch to suggest that she would do a much better job than him, given her ability to solve nation-state disputes. "All right, I guess I could manage with loads of studying and help… but what if I had a reason for not wanting to be king?"

The quieter, swifter words blended into a quick babble that Nimue almost didn't manage to discern. It was likely this – the task of telling apart the separate words – that kept the mage from guessing the next part of this apparent confession. As things were, she reached for the other logical conclusion with routine ease.

"You want to stay with the Grey Wardens?" Alistair was both immensely relieved and thoroughly dejected that she hadn't guessed what would have already made Morrigan double-over with laughter. Even now, he could imagine the swamp witch sneering: _You think you have a chance?_ "I don't really think that will be an option here in Ferelden. It would require going either to Orlais or to Weisshaupt and I doubt you'd get the chance to do that."

"Well, that's one of the reasons, I suppose. But not the most important one." He would really have to say it, if the way Nimue frowned was any indication.

"I thought there was just one."

"It's all connected, you see. One thing leads to another and being king would sort of completely smash these things to bits." This analogy was going nowhere, though, because he really didn't know how to finish such a metaphor without looking like an idiot. Even that was a talent, of course, but not terribly helpful for impressing women. "And I really don't want… it's important to me, more than you can perhaps imagine."

"You're not really making any sense here." But perhaps he was, which was what had Nimue a little worried. If Alistair knew about the possibility of her being engaged to Teagan, he was bound to have an opinion on that. And, with this assumption, it was easy to guess that he was likely not too keen about the prospect.

Better to wait and see, of course, but the mage was preparing herself for the possibility.

"I guess not. It's just that…" _I don't want to become king because it would mean that the chance of being with you vanishing forever? Oh, and if you haven't guessed, I love you. _Yes, that would do _exactly_ the trick. Since when had his inner critic begun to sound like Morrigan, though? "Ah, how do I say this? You'd think that after that debacle with Goldanna, it would be easy to tell you anything, but there's just this nagging feeling that maybe there's a better time and place…"

Before the rambling got worse, Nimue took mercy upon him and temporarily abandoned her carefulness in favor of sympathy. Certainly they had never stood so close than when the mage gripped him by the forearms, doing her best to appear reassuring.

"Slow down, breathe." The first was easy to fulfill, along with the second, though perhaps not the way the elf intended. Instead of deep breaths came shallow intakes of breath and yet stillness. Alistair felt rather as if he were asked to jump into a frozen lake by the mermaid living within; either course of action would be painful. "Look, I know I was a little resentful when you didn't tell me of your heritage before we came here, but you can tell me anything you need. I'm here for you."

"I know." If he hadn't, this would have been enough to assure him. "And I'm very grateful for it. In fact, I'd be exceedingly happy if it remained that way… if not forever, then for as long as humanly – or, eh, elfly, I suppose – possible." he amended, fully aware of his own babbling. At this distance, he was almost able to tell whether her eyes were blue or grey, but not quite. "I really don't want to lose you."

Receiving an almost heartfelt laugh to that could be a very good or a very bad sign. Alistair chose to hope for the former. "I'll do my best to ensure I don't die, but I can't make any promises. If I survive the Blight, there's a chance I might stay at hand, should you need me." It almost seemed that Nimue was studying him for a reaction to something, but Alistair didn't really know what he was supposed to be reacting to.

But the point – the point was that she was considering staying. With him. Which was Most Decidedly a Good Thing. In fact, it was downright marvelous.

It would be better if he knew what criterion she had for choosing between these alternatives and what defined the others. Knowing how to prevent them from becoming reality would be downright awesome.

Right now, though, this sufficed, even though she had let go of his arms (but remained at a close distance).

"I'd hoped that you would." Now, the question was, would she be offended if he held her to that promise and would it be much too bold to ask for mild guarantee in the form of a kiss? "B-but that's beside the point. You should know that I _want_ you to stay because... we haven't known each other for that long – well, no longer than a year, but still - you've become very… important to me."

The confusion lessened a little, but Nimue did her best to remain at least outwardly unmoved by things. "That is entirely mutual. I never really thought… I never would have guessed that I'd be glad to have a templar at my side."

"Ex-templar." Alistair corrected, purely out of habit.

"To some mages, that wouldn't make too much difference." But she was somewhat apologetic as she said this, realizing her own mistake. "I'm very fortunate to be among those who have been taught to see beyond that. I'll always be grateful for having found the exception to the rule."

Months ago, saying as much would have probably cost her much more effort. Nowadays, she admitted so easily. This was more of an achievement than anyone who had never known mages would suppose. Alistair was rightly proud and grinned accordingly.

"Well, milady, you are most welcome." The title sounded no more comforting from one noble's mouth than from another's, but Nimue didn't appear nearly as perturbed by it as she had before. "But I think we've gotten a bit off track here and I need you to know…" Showing his inner Morrigan-voiced ill advisor into a mental oubliette, Alistair rubbed his eyes with the hope that it would also clear his mind. "Ah, this is worse than sparring team tryouts. You're entirely too distracting."

"Distracting?" That was coming from the woman with Andraste's light in her eyes.

"Yes, and frustrating, because you don't let me finish my thought. Then I lose my train of thought and you win every argument." Alistair considered this accusation entirely justified, especially with the way she played up the innocence factor when it suited her. "Oh, there it is. Almost thought I'd lost it. Anyway, the reason why I don't like this king business is because there's something more precious to me than the crown that I could easily lose. What I'm trying to say is…" Alistair finally decided to steady himself and take the plunge. "Nimue…"

But there were footsteps on the corridor before he could take her hand and let his heart speak without allowing his mind to intervene. If it were just one of the servants or one of the Guerrin family, even, Alistair wouldn't have hesitated to reaffirm his affections to the elf mage… but it was Sten, in full armor, marching towards Nimue with unquestionable intent.

Surely enough, the qunari succeeded in stealing Nimue's attention before he even managed to speak. Her entire posture shifted when the Warden firmly lodged in her kaleidoscope of attitudes took over and she stepped back to face the warrior with an attentive expression.

"Kadan, your presence is required." Sten said everything in his deadpan monotone, meaning that he could have been commenting on how cute kittens are or how pleasing it was to kill, for all the variations his voice had. The interesting aspect was this form of address, which the qunari employed only for her. "The witch has returned and apparently intends to speak only to you about her findings."

And this was cause enough for the warrior himself to come? Of course, given the way Morrigan tended to tease him, Alistair wasn't surprised that the qunari would prefer to be rid of her presence, but this went somewhat beyond his usual duties and responsibilities. "Since when has she made you her messenger?"

It was admirable how effectively the tall warrior could look through a person before shifting his attention – and his message – back to the elf, as if Alistair hadn't spoken at all. "She is threatening to disintegrate the dwarf if he does not cease with his pestering. As you consider them both of use, I supposed you would wish to intervene."

Given the kind of suave seductions the dwarf was capable of when intoxicated, it was no surprise that reactions were inevitable. And with Morrigan no doubt being annoyed that Nimue wasn't at hand immediately to listen to her and discuss their magic, she wasn't going to pull any punches.

Not that she ever did, but this would be particularly severe, no doubt.

Frog time possible, Alistair concluded from the grim look that passed through Nimue's face, barely concealing the sigh she didn't release.

"Where are they?"

"In the west wing. Their precise location changes, but can easily be pinpointed through the screams and drunken rambling." Anyone else would have assumed that this was a joke, but with Sten, it was impossible to tell. The likeliest outcome was that this was at least partly fact.

Nimue closed her eyes for a moment, but her months of living and traveling with these people showed; her shoulders didn't sag and resolution returned to her expression.

"I'm on it." Her face softened a little when she glanced at the templar, who had so rudely been interrupted. But the greater catastrophe would be to wait and see how far Morrigan could be pushed; and Nimue was a little curious about what she had found. "We'll finish later, all right, Alistair? Just remind me later on."

"Of course." Alistair was once again torn between disappointment and relief at the sight of her distancing form. He knew all too well that the hours awarded to him now wouldn't help in any way as far as composing a proper confession was concerned, but he tried to muster all determination available.

He had been about to say it. Really.

"Don't you want help?" True, she did move much faster without heels, but Alistair couldn't imagine the running around being comfortable, especially when not all surfaces were covered with heavy carpets. "At least with retrieving your shoes?"

_How like a dog_, Morrigan would have said. Alistair decided to blame everything on her purely out of principle.

As Nimue didn't really turn around, it was difficult to tell if she was flattered or worried by the notion. "I don't think that's a good idea! I'll get them myself later!"

How much later, she didn't specify, because she had apparently learned to run quite efficiently even with the heavy fabric of her gown in the way. It had to have something to do with the long training she had gone through with the mage robes and the many, many staircases in the Circle tower. If one could handle living in a place that was apparently designed to either contain or kill you, then sprinting in an ankle-length skirt had to be a breeze.

Still…

"Couldn't she have picked a better time to stumble into Oghren?" Alistair sighed, resisting the sudden urge to (gently, he did bruise easily) bang his head against the nearest wall. He had been several words away from at least being rid of the uncertainty that kept nagging at him like a particularly persistent nug. "Of course nothing ever goes as it should! Why would it?" Surprisingly, the templar realized that he wasn't yet alone; the qunari warrior had remained rooted to the spot, something unexpected. "What is it, Sten?"

Moreover, if it was possible for anyone with such a perpetual frown to look surprised (dully, but surprised nonetheless), this was the moment. Alistair wouldn't have believed it if he wasn't there to witness it. The qunari could often stand eerily still, in attention, but his eyes were a little wider and rooted to the spot where Nimue had vanished out of sight.

Peculiar.

"The Warden…" And he was actually choosing to speak! Wonders would never cease. Alistair made a point of listening to this historic announcement. "She was actually dressed like a woman."

The former templar wasn't certain what exactly had tipped Sten off; he never seemed to consider Nimue dressed like a woman when in her robes, yet the sight of a dress was enough to prompt this kind of reaction?

Clearly, this was a matter worth investigating.

"Yes, Lady Isolde seems to think that the best way to become friends with the savior of your child is to laud her with gowns and shoes." Alistair decided to play it nonchalant, at least for the moment. Perhaps the sight of their best fighter being an actual woman had broken the qunari's reasoning, if not his brain? Surely that was too much of a paradox for one of his beliefs. "Leliana approves almost too heartily. Don't tell me this is the first time you've seen Nimue in these past few days."

At the mention of the bard, Sten finally shifted his gaze towards the other man. The surprise had given away to the same coldness he had displayed when he had been testing whether Alistair had any kind of backbone. "So you continue to allow the bard to remain a threat to your intentions towards the Warden."

It was such a mood whiplash, Alistair couldn't help but splutter.

"W-what? Didn't you see the way Nimue was running away?" Not to mention her obvious lack of affection for the shoes she had discarded and the way she had tried her best to be ready for any sight or sound of the lay sister. "Even if Leliana wasn't just looking for a life-sized doll, it wouldn't be a stretch to say the feeling wasn't mutual. I'd sooner say that Zevran-" Here Alistair stopped. It would be stupid to consider that less probable, because probable was right out in that manner.

It was the time to act, and quickly, because each time the assassin laid out another reason why Nimue shouldn't shirk from his idea of a relationship, it was an ostentatious challenge. And Nimue resisted less and less, most likely out of kindness combined with the intent to keep their group together, no matter what.

Sten, of course, had a different point of view on things entirely. And if he knew about the betting poll, he would have needed further contemplation before betting his money (or meals, in this case) on any of the candidates. He would have pinpointed the man in front of him as the least likely to succeed, though.

"Apparently, you do not consider that she might wish to look like a woman for someone other than yourself." the qunari summarized, hitting the jackpot right away, beyond any doubt. Strangely, this hit Alistair only after someone else said it out loud. "If you intend to follow through with the intention of mating the Warden, you should try to at least _look _a man."

And Alistair was left standing alone, to wonder how he was supposed to exercise power over a country if he couldn't even fight his own wishes and desires. On another note, he mused whether or not he should be offended by this remark – and whether the basis for comparison was the qunari standard of clench-jawed manhood or the dagger-happy perpetual grin of the long-haired elf that wasn't afraid of making his intentions known to Nimue. Even if this meant a perpetual stalemate between the two of them.

The last was the deepest reason to ponder: was a stalemate much better than one step forward, two steps back?


	7. A Race for Ever After

The plot thickens as we near the departure from Redcliffe and the start of the elves vs. werewolves subplot that will be marginally necessary as a framework for the whole story. I won't be delving too deep into that, because anyone can just play the game and have a look at it, but there will be mentions of plot-important details later on.

Anyway, Teagan is steadily (and unsurprisingly) winning the poll so far, but votes are still open, right up to the chapter where Nimue will make her final decision – and that one is still long in coming, so feel free to throw in your two bits and make a suggestion.

**o.O.o**

**A Race for ****Ever After**

**o.O.o**

Alistair would go on to contemplate Sten's pronouncement for quite a while, for good or ill. It wasn't that he cared about whether or not the qunari considered him a man – with the way Sten always seemed rigid, ready to kill and do so without any regard to the consequences, if it was necessary, Alistair wasn't entirely certain that this was the ideal of manhood he should aspire to – but that he kept wondering about the part that related to Nimue.

With the constant brushes with death, eternal running and whatnot, romance should have been the last thing on either of their minds. Yet here they were, safe for the first time in a long time, and perhaps the day had finally dawned to give consideration to such things.

They had known each other for the better part of a year now, ever since that bloodbath at Ostagar and the resulting near-death experience atop the Tower of Ishaal. Compared to their confident and calm leader of today, Nimue had been so scared back then. She had never fought outside the controlled environment of a mage-on-mage duel in the Circle. Maker, she had marveled at everything that wasn't stone or magic, which was the utter opposite of what should be anyone's sentiment.

Today, her hair was longer, her robes different and fit for battle; she knew more about the world than most mages living in the tower ever would… and yet it was still her, deep inside, the wide-eyed fledgling who had to be taught that arrows were something to generally avoid and that ogres weren't simply pictures in books on biology and physiognomy, to study at leisure.

Alistair didn't know what made her the one he had fallen in love with. She was beautiful, certainly, kind even though she rarely received such sentiment in return and no longer a fragile flower, but… all right, maybe there was a lot to fall in love with about her, but he had discovered these things with astonishing quickness; astonishing because she didn't seem to consider any of these traits particularly noteworthy about herself. It was pathetic that, after so long, he still wasn't able to openly confess to her how he felt.

She had liked the rose, certainly, but after that assumption that he was giving her a potion ingredient she couldn't use… suffice to say that Alistair's confidence had received a spectacular whack on the head with just a few words courtesy of Nimue; and she hadn't even done it consciously.

He was determined this time, however. He had faltered for too long and if he didn't make his intentions known soon, it might be too late. Maker knew that there were some matters in which he couldn't compete with the likes of Zevran; he wasn't an elf, nor a mage like Wynne or Morrigan, to understand the intricacies of the arcane. But he, too, had spent his childhood trapped in a place of resentment and bad feelings. He, too, had lost much and gained more upon joining the Wardens.

And it had been him who had brought the first smile to Nimue's face upon mentioning his upbringing by flying wild dogs, so perhaps there was yet a way to hope for the best.

Perhaps he would get the chance to continue with what he had begun before dinner. Maker knew he'd most likely lose his courage if it took any longer, because there was the constant nagging doubt in his mind that Nimue would reciprocate. And, once they left, it would be difficult to get her to stop planning in advance for long enough to pour his heart out. He could, after all, see how excited she was about seeing the Dalish, under all that anxiety.

There were voices coming from a nearby room; Alistair slowed down a little to pass it by without disturbing the conversation. It certainly was much easier to sneak around without armor; Leliana and Zevran had to be truly commended for being able to do so even while dressed in leather and metal. There had to be an art to that kind of thing.

He intended to walk away and look for Leliana to ask her to stop making Nimue so uncomfortable (or try to, at least), but stopped when the muffed conversation became somewhat more audible. Someone had apparently bee in too much of a hurry to bother properly closing the door.

"…suitable. Are you certain about this?"

It was Arl Eamon, without question. Alistair could have recognized the quiet authority in that voice anywhere, especially after the many times he had faced it as a little boy. The days of looking down at his shoes with an attempted casual air were long gone now, but the mild feeling that he should be ashamed of himself for some reason remained.

He hadn't had the chance to speak with the Arl ever since the announcement that he would be resuming his candidacy for the throne. Which had been an order, not a request. Now, Alistair wasn't prone to eavesdropping, nor did he encourage it, but politeness ordered that he wait for the conversation to be finished before entering. He, too, had words for the Arl after all – Eamon had to be informed that his candidacy for the throne was null and void and that they needed a better argument, even though he had accepted with a stammer when being faced with this surprise.

The rhythmic tapping of footsteps continued, which meant that at least one side of the conversation was rather disinclined to listen to the topic at hand.

"Quite." Which was why Alistair was entirely surprised by the person who was apparently unnerving the steadfast Arl to be his own brother (the Arl's, not his. That would have been decidedly disturbing, given his deceased state.) "In fact, I can hardly think of a more suitable woman myself." Teagan spoke calmly, as usual, even if he were faced with an incoming storm. Which, given his calm during the Redcliffe invasion, was practically a standard for the man. He was likely the one sitting – or standing – motionlessly in attention, allowing his brother space and movement. "Have you any alternatives?"

The pacing stopped; Alistair had the vivid image of the Arl turning and facing his verbal opponent in his mind. "You have, I assume, considered the drawbacks of having her as a wife?" There was a certain bluntness to the question, despite the polite delivery.

The final word had Alistair intrigued. Wife? Was Teagan finally considering marriage; had a woman finally captivated their stubborn perfectionist to the point that he was willing to tie the knot, so to speak? If so, the heir apparent felt rather childishly giddy (which he was aware of). He would have a field day with this if it was true, because there had always been very few opportunities to tease his step-uncle, even when he had been little and more open to mindless mischief.

"There are fewer than you would assume." Teagan continued, apparently still not budging. He was being way too calm about this, though, so Alistair began having the slightest doubts. After all, no one had yet explicitly said that he would be the one marrying, and if the recent months had taught the former templar anything, it was that making assumptions was a dangerous business. As quietly as possible, he edged closer to the door, dimly aware of the lack of movement inside. "Besides, her achievements speak for themselves and far outweigh any concerns anyone might have. And those barely matter."

The pacing resumed, slower this time, accompanied with a half-hearted sigh.

"Maric's fascination with elves seems to be spreading in the family, I see." Eamon noted after a deep breath, as if saying the words was akin to climbing a tall mountain.

Contrary to what Morrigan might claim, Alistair wasn't nearly as naïve (or stupid, to use her word) as people might assume. At least, not when faced with large chunks of fact. The mention of his ill-fated father was enough to give him pause, but connecting the words in a sequence (drawbacks-wife-achievements-elves) wasn't beyond his capability. His throat felt dry, but he didn't dare move; even without his usual armor, Alistair suddenly felt noisy and too clunky, the slightest movement presenting the risk of discovery.

Nimue. They were talking about Nimue. She was the only elf he was aware of that would give one pause with her skills and abilities… but to consider her a wife-candidate…

Alistair felt as if a large chunk of iron had been dropped into his stomach, like swallowing a sword in the literal, non-metaphorical way. Dear Maker, if both Eamon and Teagan had noticed how important Nimue was to him to the degree of discussing the possibility of their marriage…

Maker knew he had considered it. Back while trapped in the Fade, he had seen the image of his sister and her children, but, as time passed, Alistair began to wonder how come it hadn't been accompanied by that of a wife (_her_) and children of his own to complete the illusion of bliss. That way, he surely wouldn't have listened to the pale specter telling him that it was all just a lie and would never have experienced the reality of things. He thought of Goldanna often, even today, now with bitterness, but thought of her nonetheless.

But to hear others consider the woman he loved a bridal candidate, like this was something others could decide (as if buying a prize horse, really…) was both eerie and frightening and Not Good At All, because it could mean Nimue herself had noticed and…

Teagan's calm laughter woke Alistair from this revelry. The former templar hadn't even noticed one of the servants pass him, but his fears of discovery were to prove unfounded, since the maid ignored him like she would a part of the furniture. Worse still; she didn't even stop to dust him or anything; he might as well be made of air.

"Come now, brother, surely it isn't entirely incomprehensible to you." Bann Teagan had apparently gotten out of his seat in a gesture of approachability. He usually did that when attempting to calm the storm. If so, then he was on his (their?) side, and the weight of the sword lessened. Alistair briefly, nonsensically, wished that he could sneak around as easily as Leliana and enter the room unnoticed to get visual confirmation of this tell-tale fact. "Besides, I fear the choice isn't yours."

"Nor yours at this point." There was a hint of resignation in Arl Eamon's voice, just like when he was forced to let a particularly devious kind of mischief go due to lack of evidence. Strangely, Alistair felt almost giddy behind the anxiety. This was going a little too well, but who was he to complain? "Very well; I can accept it." Childishly perhaps, but triumphantly (which was all that mattered), Alistair made use of the fact that no one else was around and punched the air in triumph. "You know I wouldn't want to deprive anyone of their happiness. You do understand, though, that this will cause problems."

"We have so many of those; I can't imagine we wouldn't be able to handle it." That was the first sign of sense in the conversation from the point he had started listening in, Alistair thought. Now wasn't the time for marriage anyway, but it was actually kind of wonderful to see that things might yet work out. of course, there was always the problem that Nimue was just dead-set on picking the worst times to either run off or go save the world or something, but after the Blight, that would be fixed. If Arl Eamon supported him, he could handle proposing to a woman.

The hero of Ferelden.

He hoped.

This really wasn't the time for this kind of fear. Maybe it would be easier after facing the archdemon.

"Don't tell me you haven't noticed how taken Alistair is with the girl."

Alistair perked up, somewhat confused. Wasn't this the very point of the conversation? Was short-term memory really that bad in this family as age progressed? Yes, he would have to be taken with a woman to consider marrying her – which was the topic in question. Perhaps he had missed a sentence? Maker knew that wouldn't be too difficult, with all the thoughts and fears swirling in his mind at the moment.

But Teagan apparently didn't lose his calm or his apparent good mood so easily, because his tone never wavered. "It would be difficult to miss." Alistair felt his cheeks heat up a little at the remark. That didn't have to be a good thing, with the way Nimue always seemed determined not to notice. Well, not determined per se, just not noticing. "I assumed that you intend to speak with him regarding the matter."

A talk? Now that wasn't good, Alistair realized with a sinking feeling. Talks always meant he had done something wrong. Perhaps he was misinterpreting things? He understood that a non-human woman could hardly be considered a candidate for queen, but he had sort of supposed that considering Nimue a suitable (gulp) wife for him meant that they were finally seeing the foolishness of this whole make-Alistair-king-because-that's-_such_-a-bright-idea thing. Hopefully, he wasn't.

"It might not be necessary, given your sudden interest." Arl Eamon sounded just the tiniest bit grim, but there was a spark of relief in his voice. Not quite as if he had avoided a particularly well-aimed arrow… but present nonetheless.

While Bann Teagan didn't chuckle once more, Alistair could practically hear the smile in his voice. But he didn't understand; interest? In his marriage? Not that it wasn't bad, it was just… unexpected.

"Not as sudden as you'd think. And, before you suggest it, it isn't a ploy simply to get Isolde off my back regarding her twittering cousins." he added, the shudder he had likely suppressed passing to Alistair. Dear Maker, he could still remember the wonderful visits… and their rather _creative_ methods of getting the young and very eligible brother of the Arl to notice them.

He had had nightmares of that for months. Possibly lifelong scars, you never knew. But seriously, the _nails_…

Gah!

Alistair forced himself to resume listening to the conversation rather than descend into the depths of despair over the peculiar Orlesian methods of catching a man's attention. Certainly it was more beneficial to his own mental health and therefore a good idea.

Peculiarly, Arl Eamon seemed to have resigned to all this far too easily and no longer sounded as grim as before. Possibly because he, too, remembered the horrors of unmarried young Orlesian women hungry for prey all too vividly. "I wouldn't blame you if it was, but I will have objections if you say as much to her." And Lady Isolde, with her forced ignorance of their antics… odd that a woman who had been so quick to point out Alistair's every last fault could so easily ignore those of her own relations. Each to their own, one supposed. "Maker help me, I actually see your point. Very well; you have my blessing." Eamon finished, not nearly as dejectedly as he perhaps would have wished.

Blessings to help were always good, however. Perhaps the battle could yet be won.

"I didn't require it, but I'm grateful nonetheless. What do you intend to tell Alistair?" There was silence for a second or two, which could only mean contemplation. Fortunately, once more, Bann Teagan rushed to the rescue. Or so it seemed. "Eamon, I would hardly wish to hurt him in any way, but I don't believe Nimue is even aware of the extent of his feelings."

Now it was getting a tad confusing. She wasn't aware, but she had consented? She wasn't aware, but she could? And what would hurt him if she did?

Eamon, for his part, had resumed his slow, steady pacing around the room, if only for a little while. "It is an infatuation with a woman who has been a steadfast companion in a most dire time in his life. Understandable. Regrettable, but understandable." Their eavesdropper would have bristled, if he had the ability to do so quietly. Regrettable? Infatuation? If this was what Eamon believed, why had he agreed? Obviously, he hadn't known Nimue long enough to understand that falling in love with her was as natural as breathing to any creature. "Alistair is dutiful, above all else. He will understand; he must, if he is to be king. And you marrying the Warden might actually quicken and ease the pain, given time."

The world of protests and arguments came to a grinding halt so suddenly, it almost shattered.

Alistair went utterly still, uncertain if he had heard correctly. But the words were echoing in his mind so loudly, they almost drowned out all semblance of thought. Marriage. Nimue. Bann Teagan.

Bann Teagan wished to marry Nimue.

The sword in his throat seemed to pierce every vital organ, starting with his lungs. Alistair almost felt faint. Part of him wished to storm into that chamber and start yelling – he didn't know what, simply let out all of this, because there was pain in all the places it mattered – but something (duty, perhaps) restrained him, reminding him of the consequences of eavesdropping, the impoliteness of it all and how it wasn't really their fault, except that it was.

If Nimue had passed him at that moment, she might not have recognized him, from the white horror in his face to the rage in his eyes. For several eternal moments, any semblance of whatever made Alistair himself had been shed, before the pieces returned to their place, one by one.

It was a slow thing, this return of the mask hiding the raw current of emotion.

"I will tell Nimue of this, assuming she consents."

He had asked her already. Which explained…

Temporarily, Alistair's heart abandoned its post in his throat. But Nimue hadn't yet consented. She had been asked, most likely, but she hadn't consented yet. He didn't know what to make of this; certainly, she could have told him of this peculiar offer. But Nimue, with her penchant for seeking out peaceful compromises, had likely not wished to hurt him in any way (which meant she knew) or didn't think it was any of his business (which would mean a twist of the knife). But once he was himself again, Alistair immediately grabbed the former conclusion and held onto it for dear life.

"Uncertain of yourself, brother?" If this was indeed teasing, then it meant that Arl Eamon had truly exhausted his arguments against the notion. Which bode ill for him indeed. "If she has conquered you this way, she deserves you."

This wasn't the time to face the Arl with his pronouncement of not wishing to be king. This was hardly the state he could enter in, after all, with the whirlwind of emotion passing through him. If there were darkspawn at hand, perhaps even they would have backed away, either because of the intense hope or crushing despair fighting for control over Alistair's expression. Whatever willpower he had, he summoned it up to try and sneak away and look unperturbed to anyone he might encounter in the corridor.

Then, once out of earshot of the room, he sprinted away to find Wynne, mirroring Nimue's own move of a few nights ago without even knowing it.

**o.O.o**

On the other side of the castle, Nimue was cursing her gown once again and racing through the corridors as quickly as her bare feet allowed her. after the horrible torture of the heels, being allowed to run without pain was possibly the greatest reward anyone could have given her.

"…rself, disgusting creature." Nimue sped up a little. That was her cue to make a fast entry, as soon as possible. "Get out of my way or be blasted out of it."

While Morrigan might specialize in entropy spells, she was perfectly capable of making good on that threat. While a good blast to the head might change something regarding Oghren's mindset, it could change it for the worse, which wasn't something to aspire to. Besides, the last thing they needed after saving the damned castle was to have it blown up. They were short enough on cash to decidedly not need to pay for the rebuilding of a whole castle.

The snort-like giggles that were coming from the general direction of the possible heart of the hypothetical crater were not a good sign at all. "C'mon, ya wildcat." Oghren's slurs were even more unfocused than usual, which could mean any number of unpleasant things in this context. "You know you want a piece of ol' Oghren…"

Fortunately, the threat of such great monetary loss was enough to make Nimue sprint as if the very archdemon was behind her, forgetting any semblance of propriety or grace (useless, really, since neither would get her any refunds if the castle was blown up untimely.)

With that in mind, she managed to dash into the room just as Morrigan was about to either give a highly biting retort or blast Oghren out of existence. Fortunately, the rushed but timely entrance was enough to stop whatever was about to come to pass, even though Nimue was entirely out of breath when she grabbed the doorframe for support.

"Stop… whatever it is you're doing…" she managed to wheeze out, gulping for air as if she had just nearly drowned. Her head was almost spinning a little, but it would all be worth it if she was still there in time to prevent an untimely murder. "I'm here…"

The room appeared mostly intact, save for the chair where the dwarf and his hefty supply of alcohol was currently residing. They had apparently entered through the other exit, though how Oghren had come to be in this part of the castle when the wine cellar was so distant was a mystery. Morrigan, for her part, looked distinctly annoyed (more so than usual) and ready to pop a vein, preferably someone else's. Other than that, her boots betrayed a trek through mud-ridden territory, even if she wasn't otherwise haggard in any manner.

And though it was customary for the swamp witch to look at Nimue as if she were the only one with at least a scrap of sanity in their group, this time, the relieved glance was so profound that only the highly-intoxicated dwarf could have missed it.

"At last you arrive." Credit had to be given to the fact that Morrigan didn't allow any such relief to show in her voice. That she began to ignore Oghren's existence with all her might could have something to do with it, of course, because she refused to look in the dwarf's direction. "Let us go somewhere I might vomit without fear of contamination. This very chamber has been tainted by that thing's presence."

Before Nimue could catch her breath, though, Oghren's vision apparently regained focus as he squinted at her. One had to wonder how he kept his eyes from popping. "'S you, Nim? Y' better not wind up going sensible an' not actin' like every Ancestor-damned wench in Orzammar."

Maybe there was supposed to be something symbolical about the way the berserker shook his tankard around, but Nimue didn't see it. "We're not in Orzammar anymore, Oghren."

"Aye, and a good thin' that is, too. Blight-spawned poetess." The dwarf muttered that last remark more to himself than to her, but Nimue had heard enough references to the woman to know exactly who it was. Being mistaken for her was a rather unflattering memory, after all. Oddly though, the dwarf went abruptly back to those snort-like giggles and changed the topic with a wave of his tankard. "'Course, the mutt'd be damned surprised if ya turned out like that…"

The servants would kill him if they found out that he had brought ale to the residential quarters and spilled enough to fill a tub, Nimue mused as she watched the erratic movements of his hands. Best leave now before things got ugly and the borrowed dress (hateful as it was) got ruined by the liquid. Perhaps it was worth more than the castle in sentimental value, which would be most difficult to replace.

"I'll, ah, check up on you later. Or rather send someone to do so." Nimue murmured instead of a goodbye and promptly backed out of the chamber. Morrigan hadn't bothered with goodbyes – given her lack of fondness for the dwarf – and was already waiting outside, arms crossed in her usual manner.

"You either have impeccable or horrible timing." Curiously, either of these had the same reasons behind them, from Morrigan's point of view. "'Twould be no loss if we were to dispose of the dwarf. He is no longer useful to you in any way." He had only been useful for telling them about the Ortan Thaig, really; they should never have taken him along beyond that.

Since they were talking and walking at the same time, perhaps the witch missed Nimue's light shrug. She would have interpreted it as a blasé attitude instead of an attempt to justify his presence otherwise.

"He's eager to fight on the front lines and knows how to swing his axe. At the time being, that's enough for me."

Those were relatively valid reasons, considering that they might need to throw anything they could at the archdemon before slaying it. Still, Morrigan had to wonder if it was truly worth all this trouble. If she could only find a way to render the dwarf catatonic and transport him around like that…

"Have it your way. But you look… exhausted." The witch's expression softened, if only a little. Needless compassion aside, Nimue wasn't an annoying presence and much closer to her own mindset than her actions might suggest. "More so than usual. Has the old woman been lecturing you again, or is it the idiots vying for your attention?" She counted all the others among them, not only the men attempting to crawl into her bed (no matter what pretty words they tried to justify themselves with). Getting meatshields to follow her meant that the elf had to be accommodating to all their opinions. An utter waste. "If so, I do hope one of them finally killed the others."

"No such luck." Amazingly, Nimue didn't even try to make some sort of case for them; she simply shrugged the remark off. Someone must have frustrated her greatly today if she didn't even spare the witch a look suggesting the need for a timely rescue. "In any case, I'm fine… well, as fine as I can be." she added once she realized that lying to Morrigan would be outright pointless. In an effort to steer the conversation away from possible nihilistic but justified advice, Nimue changed the topic. "Do you have any news? Have you found out something?"

"Very little, unfortunately." Morrigan herself was displeased with this. It wasn't her own fault; after destroying the demon, they had been forced to leave right away to save the Arl and by the time they had returned, most traces had been cleared off. "The villagers have been most diligent in their efforts to destroy all evidence of the attack. I suppose that they will try their best to pretend it never happened once we leave. What I have found is the remains of the residue aura of the demon." she added, the only fortunate news she could bring. "'Twould seem that the corpses it animated had a unique scent, so to speak, which was a signature of the demon. It lingers, which is surprising."

Nimue's frown resumed. While this was a good sign in terms of extermination, it also signified that the Veil had become considerably weaker since the beginning of the Blight. The trigger of Connor had been strong, along with that in the Circle tower, but the residue might suggest that there could yet be more of these incidents, regardless of the strength of the instigator.

"Do you think it might be a symptom of the Blight?" the elf asked, biting gently on her lip as she tried to remember all the books she had ever read on possession, demons and abominations. "Decay coming together?"

Morrigan considered the idea, though it did seem a little unlikely to her. "Perhaps. I know you managed to destroy the demon, yet… it is simply odd." she amended. The child possessed and saved seemed to have mostly returned to normal, yet the witch couldn't help the thought that perhaps he had been left in the demon's possession for a little too long. They should have just taken the opportunity of the blood magic ritual when a willing victim was at hand and solved things right away. The results would have been the same. "I would remain cautious as we venture into the forest."

"I thought you, of all people, would be looking forward to it." Again, the topic was shifting. My, but the elf's interest to a particular topic was fleeting today. There would be retribution for this soon, no doubt. It would be easier on them all if she'd just let Morrigan kill them and reanimate them as corpses. Their use would be intact still and their quasi-witty input much more bearable (meaning nonexistent). "The open sky once again, the woodlands…"

"Foolishness." the witch said, with a small snort. This was Nimue's perception of the wilderness coloring her own opinion of the forest. It was like asking her if she liked returning to the tower. "The Brecillian Forest is nothing like the Korcari Wilds… and I am no elf, to rejoice at hiding amongst trees. Not that I wish to offend, given your previous… limitations." Morrigan added carefully. Cages she was all too familiar with.

Fortunately, Nimue waved her hand in a dismissive manner. She obviously wished to spare the tower no further thoughts. "It's the past. Could we work on that next shapeshifting form once you're done vomiting, though?"

This time, Morrigan contented herself with raised eyebrows and decided not to question what had brought this sudden restlessness and wish to isolate herself to the elf. "Uncertain of your own abilities, are you?"

Nimue, for her part, gave the tight smile she usually reserved for settling disputes with words when she would have much preferred to use a well-placed fireball. "No, just trying to hide from Leliana."

Which, given the all-too-giddy and possibly lyrium-addled glint the Orlesian seemed to have in her eyes whenever looking at the elf nowadays, was entirely understandable.


	8. Wanting Ever After

Due to an extremely busy exam week at college and the fact that my old laptop broke down, this chapter is a little late in coming.

Multiple scene juggle here, which was kind of difficult to write. Originally, I was planning to have the Alistair-Wynne talk here, but I think it would be a rather redundant scene, considering Nimue did the same and I can very well put it in as a flashback later on. In the first scene, it was originally supposed to be Isolde with Nimue, but I don't think I could write her entirely believably, so I opted for another choice. Then, since everyone seems to like their bards sneaky, Leliana weaseled her way into a scene, which was inspired by a party dialogue I got with her – I really liked that part.

Just to clarify, the party will be leaving Redcliffe in the very next chapter, which will be a kind of formal presentation of the whole "challenge" to Alistair and Zevran. Things will start to heat up from there on.

**o.O.o**

**Wanting Ever After**

**o.O.o**

Morrigan wasn't by any means a patient or gentle teacher, but she was thorough in her instruction. And it was a particularly nice change from the usual masters Nimue had studied under at the tower, who used methods so archaic and restrictive that one might as well find the most decaying old tome around and read them from there. It was refreshing to study freely, without a templar looming over your shoulder and checking if your text about field flowers didn't contain blood magic rituals.

Or, apparently, trying to appear so while studying the shades of each of the strands of your hair, as other apprentices had at times jestingly remarked on Cullen's apparent fixation on her. Nowadays, it didn't seem nearly so amusing but irrelevant as it had back then. As this was Nimue's single experience with romance throughout her short lifetime, she couldn't be blamed too much for her attempts to distance herself from such things, along with the reluctance to either accept or refuse the offer of marriage that had so suddenly been presented to her.

If one thing was certain, it was that she wouldn't return to the tower, if she could help it. Yet she hadn't contemplated any kind of future beyond that. Mostly because she had readily assumed she would perish at Ostagar, and then, she had taken to living one day at a time, to the fullest each time. This became twice as important to her when Alistair told her that her lifespan had possibly been halved by the Joining alone. Perhaps now was the time to think what she actually wanted, since their gathering of an army was almost done.

As she slipped on the familiar robes and boots that had finally been returned to her, the mage dismissed the gigantic question mark of her survival as irrelevant. After all, she was entitled to hopes and dreams as much as the next person, possible death in the near future notwithstanding. Now that that was out of the way, she folded the borrowed clothing clumsily and decided to return it to its proper owner before their mid-day meal. They were going to leave before nightfall, with just enough cover of darkness to make it seem that they were still present at the castle. One never knew who was watching, after all

As far as Nimue saw things, she had several options, where once she had had none. Returning to the tower was out of the question, fondness for Wynne and Irving aside. She could travel on her own and finally see the world, alone or in someone's company – Leliana had readily offered as much some time ago; Zevran had all but done the same, she recalled with a brief glance at her own feet before slipping on her right boot. She could return to the Grey Wardens and see what their duties involved once a Blight was over, though Nimue wasn't quite certain she was up to once more sealing herself in a very closed community. Or, if she consented, she would be integrated into nobility and addressed warily as milady for the rest of her life by humans.

Contrary to expectation, she would perhaps have preferred having only one, maybe two choices at most. The decision would have been all the easier that way.

Oddly, she received more surprised glances when crossing the halls of Redcliffe Castle in her own attire than in that of Ferelden's former queen; the magic staff tied to her back might have something to do with that, of course. She was allowed into the private quarters of the Guerrin family easily, but, to her surprise, the only person who peeked out of their chamber at the arrival of a guest was a boy with red hair and innocent eyes.

With the taint of the desire demon no longer present, Connor looked like an ordinary boy, certainly a little pale, but otherwise entirely reminiscent of the frequent little mage apprentices that made their first – and likely only – journey across Lake Calenhad with cautious, wary faces and wide eyes.

The tower's still rather disrepaired state was one of the reasons why the boy still resided at Redcliffe, but it was Nimue's understanding that several Circle mages were present at the castle to keep an eye on him. He would also apparently be leaving soon after her own group.

"Oh, hello there." Nimue assumed her best friendly tone. The boy had seemed likeable when frightened by the "bad lady", but she wasn't particularly good with children, as far as she could judge herself. This might be difficult. In such cases, Nimue usually opted for the truth. "I was hoping to find Lady Isolde here to return these." For unnecessary emphasis, she raised the forearm around which she had draped the semi-folded gowns. There weren't too many, fortunately.

"I told mother she should go get something to eat." Connor no longer appeared so shaken, even though he was in no way a vibrant child. Nimue had the impression that he seemed to have overcome a particularly hard illness, but now was on the slow road to recovery. Perhaps in the future, if he was ever going to be told about this possession, he would understand the meaning of caution with magic much quicker than most apprentices. It was a comforting thought, in a sense, that at least a little of what had happened would be useful to someone. "She looked so pale… I hope she isn't getting sick."

Personally, Nimue thought that the very least retribution the oh-so-noble lady could deal with would be a little sickness, considering how little she had cared for anything other than her own son during this tragedy. She couldn't say as much to a child, obviously, but sometimes she wished she could state her true opinion instead of having to be the one to mend bridges between people.

Robbed of the opportunity to state the truth, the mage settled for empty phrases of comfort. "I wouldn't worry any longer. Things can only get better from now on." An adult would have seen the emptiness of the assurance. Fortunately, she wasn't dealing with one at the moment.

"But I'll be sent away, won't I?" Connor asked, steadying himself against the doorframe he hadn't yet abandoned. He didn't seem nearly as frightened about the possibility as most conscious of what a mage's life was like would be, but this was understandable. That he did seem calmer than Isolde had been was commendable, though. "Mother mentioned that I would have to leave. She seemed very upset about it."

Once more, Nimue refrained from commenting on that, and at this point, those that knew her better would have spotted the moment when her lips thinned, biting back unpleasant words. "You have a gift, Connor." The mage crouched down to the boy's height, still maintaining a distance to not frighten him in any way. She knew too well that sudden intrusions weren't always helpful. "But you must learn to be careful with it… and where you go, they can show you how to do just that. Your mother will learn to understand." She would have to, in the years to come.

Connor, however, absorbed this information quickly. "Are there other boys my age there?" he asked with innocent eagerness. Nimue couldn't imagine the boy having many friends his age, due to his exalted rank and his mother's apparent nature. Apparently, there were things not even the very rich could get at leisure. "At the tower?"

This time, Nimue could let her smile be genuine. Such fears were common, especially once the child got over the fear of being sent away from his family. "Boys and girls both, yes. All of them with the same gift." she added before Connor could perhaps display that childishness of boys who supposed that being a girl excluded one from those privileged to do magic. Fortunately, the experiences of the recent months seemed to have hardened him sufficiently against that. "Making friends is easier than you might think. You will have a lot to talk about."

"I've never been away from Redcliffe." Connor admitted, squirming a little. This fact didn't surprise Nimue overmuch. "Not even to our estate in Denerim. I don't have many friends here… not any now, I guess." Focusing again, the boy looked into the mage's eyes again, with just the hint of an eager spark. "Will you be there too, once the Blight is over?"

Irving and Greagoir might be expecting an answer to that question eventually, as would Wynne. However, with one who had no idea of her standing and her past with the Circle, Nimue could afford to be honest. "I don't know, dear." It was easy to revert to terms of endearment when the barriers were gone, but she didn't really notice. "My membership in the Grey Wardens supersedes my duties as a mage… though I have people I care about there. I would visit, at least, but I doubt I'd stay."

"You should." One had to admire the conviction of a child, especially when it was so sincere. If selfish. "I… it would be nice to know someone there." Connor admitted. Clearly, his parents had sheltered him greatly throughout his short life. "Except Jowan, but I heard he's going to be… different when I asked."

Nimue didn't want to think about Jowan, but it seemed that everyone today was forcing her to do so. Well, at the very least, he would be made Tranquil, if not slain. Strangely, Nimue felt neither rage nor regret. Somehow, she had moved past this and came to terms with her past. Perhaps thanks to the Gauntlet, in part.

"He made mistakes and has to pay his due." Nimue tried to make her expression encouraging, but didn't know just how much she could help in this case. Explaining the Rite of Tranquility to a child wasn't something easily done, let alone if the child was to be sent to the people capable of doing it so very soon. "Don't worry about him; he's accepted that."

"I see you are getting along quite well." A deeper voice spoke from behind her, the result of approaching footsteps Nimue hadn't truly heard. The mage turned with little surprise, but remained a bit wary, even though she likely had little reason to be so.

There was very little trace of resemblance between Arl Eamon and his son, who had obviously taken most of Isolde's Orlesian features. But there was a distinct similarity between the Arl and his brother, especially around the eyes, which the elf was beginning to see more clearly only now. Standing up, she nodded her head in respect and wiped any trace of emotion from her face. His choice of a conversation topic would have to determine what she could show, she had learned so much from Leliana.

"Milord." she managed as a greeting, lacing the word with respect. "I was hoping to find Lady Isolde here, to return the clothes she lent me. I have little need of them where I go."

The Arl appeared momentarily surprised by this, but didn't allow much of such sentiment to show. Evidently, he attributed the notion to her upbringing amongst mages. "The servants could have done so much for you; you are a champion of the bannorn and have more important things to do than dealing with putting away dresses."

"I like doing things thoroughly, whatever their importance." Not to mention that she still felt a twinge of resentment when seeing that most servants everywhere were elves… and that all humans seemed to share Leliana's previous view on this being their rightful place.

Fortunately, Eamon was both observant and capable of juggling words well and took note of this. "I see. I think I understand why he likes you so much." he noted, gesturing towards the sitting room of the residential quarters. Connor, while not dismissed, chose to follow out of interest, even though he didn't really understand the conversation much.

"Who does?" Nimue asked with a mild frown as she helped herself to what appeared to be the most comfortable of the visible chairs. Judging by the satisfying feeling of sinking into the fabric of the furnishings as she sat down, she picked the right one, placing her staff on the ground next to it. The only thing she made certain of was to keep it out of Connor's reach.

"May I be frank with you?" Nimue nodded, not that she had too much choice. "I would like to know what you think of Alistair. He regards you most highly, that much I can see, but you very tactfully refrained from stating your own opinion when confronted with the possibility of him being made king."

Such things could have very well been asked in front of others, though, and Nimue had no illusions about this being anything less than an interrogation. Or, at least, a highly confidential conversation, if this very direct question was anything to go by.

"Are you asking if I believe him to be a suitable candidate for the throne, or what I think of him as a person?" Frankness could be repaid with the same courtesy, after all. And, for all her unwillingness not to see, it didn't mean that she was utterly blind to various developments and possibilities. "Or are you inquiring as to my relationship with him to confirm that I will not be an obstacle to his accession?"

Eamon appeared surprisingly satisfied as he observed the mage. Things could go easier if she herself could read between the lines. "All of those answers would interest me."

The elf studied this expression for a moment or two, but had the same answer that she had given Alistair himself prepared. "I think he has the makings of a good king, if he commits to it. He's a loyal friend and a steadfast warrior." To say the least. One could say a lot on the subject of Alistair, but Nimue guessed that this wasn't really what the Arl was hoping to hear. "And I support his candidacy, which should answer your question."

Now that was a shrewd answer, worthy of any noble and certainly of a Grey Warden as well. But it didn't assuage him entirely.

"You have the makings of a politician yourself. Please don't be offended by my questions, but they have a good reason." Having given his blessing to Teagan's marriage to this woman, Eamon wished to make things completely clear between them all. This would mean speaking to Alistair as well, but if given the chance to talk to her alone, he wasn't going to squander it. Connor's presence might also help his efforts, if used correctly. "You see, if all goes as we hope and Alistair becomes king, he will need someone to help with the first few months of his reign. As he trusts me and I have known him since childhood, I intend to offer him my assistance."

"I'm certain he'd appreciate that." Nimue noted neutrally, as she had little idea where this might be going. Things began falling into context, though, if only slowly. "But what of Redcliffe? I assume the arlessa will go with you to Denerim."

"You are close to seeing the reason yourself." Connor had taken one of the nearby books and began reading it, sitting cross-legged on the floor. It was unfortunate, this sudden discovery of magic; given time, the boy would have doubtless become a most suitable aristocrat. However, one had to make do with what they had. "As a mage, you're no doubt aware that you cannot inherit a title. The same is true for my Connor now. In the absence of any other children, my only heir is my brother, Teagan."

"I didn't realize… I was told much about Rainesfere, so I didn't really see this." But, logically, Teagan couldn't have known of this plan, if Eamon had only come up with it in the recent days. It was also dependant on circumstances, but Nimue understood. If this became true, Teagan would be elevated to the rank of Arl and the responsibility of procuring an heir would fall to him and his wife. Conclusions to be drawn from this were obvious. "Am I to understand that this is your way of advising me to refuse what you seem to be aware of already?"

"Not at all." Eamon countered that with decisiveness. He wasn't aware of the infertility problems of the Grey Wardens, but the other problems could be glossed over, as Teagan had mentioned. It was a different factor entirely that was worth worrying over. "I owe you much, as does all of my family. But if you are to marry my brother, as he wishes, I would advise you to do so before Alistair is crowned king. Before I appoint Teagan my heir, at least." he amended, leaning forward and resting his elbows on his knees in the absence of a table. "The Chantry will perhaps not be as resentful of a mage rising in the ranks of nobility that way, though I cannot promise that."

Ah, yes, there was that. "For a while, I had forgotten all about the Chantry." Nimue admitted, with something that could perhaps be interpreted as shame.

Marriage to a human noble would mean a wedding on Chantry terms, formal conversion to shemlen religion and thus a direct support of its ways and ideals. It was an off-putting idea, certainly, especially since while she could learn to accept the Chantry's place in such a life, but the Chantry would always remain wary and resentful at best, outright hostile at worst.

Oddly enough, this added to her still surprised respect for Teagan, if he was aware of such things and wished to marry her despite those potential problems.

But Connor, finding a part of the conversation he could distile and understand, managed to perk up and raised his eyes from the mildly interesting book. "Is it true?" he asked, studying the elf carefully, almost as if seeing her for the first time. He didn't seem apprehensive, though. "Are you marrying uncle Teagan?"

Noticing the apparent speechlessness of the Warden, Eamon had the mercy to intervene for her. "He's asked the lady, but not received an answer yet, I understand."

And, of all the responses Nimue had been expecting, a shaky smile was among the last ones she would have considered. "That would be nice. He did seem happier after you came for him." If even a child, uninhibited by preconceptions and prejudices, could see as much, then there wasn't any further doubt in Eamon's mind about the validity of this idea. "I'll be able to tell the other boys that my auntie is a Grey Warden."

The elf's grip on the armrest of her chair tightened at this proclamation and she blinked a lot more times than actually necessary, for such a short span of time. "A-Auntie?" she repeated.

"That's what you'll be, won't you?" Connor asked, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. Which it was, truly, in the eyes of those seeing only the straight line.

"I…"

Seeing their champion rendered speechless by a child was certainly a sight Eamon hadn't expected to witness, not even today. It was perhaps unkind to laugh, but in the recent trying times, moments of amusement and novelty had to be treasured, especially those twice as rare like this.

"I think she needs a while to absorb that information, my son."

**o.O.o**

As for Leliana, she was nowhere near giving up on her new pet project.

She was willing to bet a few good pairs of shoes on the fact that Nimue hadn't taken to avoiding her purely out of fancy. Of course, it would have been difficult to assume that her sudden interest in the elf's wardrobe was purely a result of boredom, but it was somewhat surprising that the mage hadn't yet confronted her on the issue. Nimue was fortunate in being a person to rarely run from her problems, preferring to tackle them head-on, if given even the sliver of an opportunity.

Gossip around the castle suggested that Morrigan had returned, so the first assumption the bard made was that Nimue was most likely going to seek the witch out at the earliest possible opportunity. Different as they were, they got along marvelously, which didn't surprise or annoy the former lay sister as it still did Alistair. She could understand Nimue's suppressed disdain for the Chantry, given the side of it she had come to consider natural in her life and was grateful for the other woman's veil of forced acceptance of the religion, however thin it might be.

It was fortunate that the daughter of the Witch of the Wilds was a thoroughly ostentatious presence in the castle, thus making it very easy to follow the gossiping or frightened servants straight to her. But Leliana didn't stop to make conversation of any sort when she overheard another group of maids mentioning that the lady Warden had apparently gone back to the residential wing, which meant that she had most likely retired to the privacy of her own chamber.

Leliana could understand this; the camp, though filled with friendly faces, was in no way a private spot. And Nimue seemed like the kind of person who occasionally wished for no other company than that of her own thoughts.

Knocking only once, she didn't bother waiting for an answer, as it would only give Nimue the possibility of shapeshifting into that insect swarm form she so favored when needing to fly away (why she couldn't turn into a dove or at least a hawk, if necessary, Leliana couldn't tell, though she supposed it was out of consideration for Shale).

"Don't worry; it's only me, Nimue. I found some lovely- oh." Leliana cut herself off. She knew the layout of Nimue's room well enough after her frequent visits to be able to tell which parts the mage favored. The only figure present was elven indeed, but even with the dimmed lights, their leader certainly wouldn't have willingly ventured near the closet, if she could help it. Besides, the visible outline of ever-present swords was kind of a give-away. "Well, this is certainly unexpected. What are you doing here, Zevran?"

A number of theories on that were dismissed based solely on the fact that Nimue herself was in fact not present at the moment. However, that didn't mean that nothing was out of the ordinary, especially with the way the assassin lounged around the bedchamber as if it belonged to him; or rather like a sated cat awaiting its owner to show some slight appreciation for their efforts, the way he was casually sitting on the bed, which would have doubtless at least unnerved the mage, had she arrived before Leliana herself. However, Zevran didn't seem the least bit disappointed with this development, though it was hard to tell if he had expected it.

"I am simply returning these to our lovely Warden." The assassin held up a pair of ladies shoes for Leliana to see, not moving an inch or losing his rather lazy smile. "She forgot them in the gardens, such a hurry she was in to run off."

Leliana hid her frown behind a light smile. She had more practice than one could need at displaying reactions different than the ones she actually felt. The gardens; now that was a location she hadn't had the chance to check. With keeping an eye on all their current players, she had hoped that Nimue would elect to wait at the castle for Morrigan's return, but, apparently, there had been a change of plans. As this effectively told her nothing and only foretold a potential rift to her plans, the bard chose to dig a little deeper.

"She didn't throw them at you, did she?" she asked, lacing her voice with potential pity. It wasn't something they could rule out entirely, but with so many other things a mage could throw at an unwelcome intrusion, shoes were likely the last thing that came to mind. "That would be somewhat excessive."

Even an untrained eye could have seen that the jab didn't manage to hit its target. Zevran merely tsked at her, which was unsurprising; both of them knew this game. The delicacy with which he set the shoes down near the bed could also have been unsurprising, but the bard wasn't certain if it might pay off to be paranoid in this case.

"Here I thought lay sisters were to be charitable, yet you wound me so." His tone just a breath away from theatric (intentionally or no), all that Zevran's current manner lacked from making it an open mockery was him clutching at his heart, or some such gesture. That he leaned back, just a little, supporting his weight easily with both arms continued to walk this knife's edge of a division. "You haven't even considered the possibility that she left them behind after a tryst of fiery passion, so that I may have reason to enter her room for a continuation of our heated lovemaking?"

The only indication that the words might not have brushed past her without any effect was that the bard folded her arms. She had no patience for shallow blows now, not when there was so little time to make some preparations. Only those as naïve as Alistair might have fallen for such bluffs.

"I think we both know Nimue a little too well to believe such things."

It didn't take great skills of observation to gather that Zevran certainly wouldn't mind knowing her better still. It was subtle and even Leliana had missed it for what was likely many times, but the very name moved something in the assassin, if only very slightly. This became more pronounced if she was actually within reach, even if reflex and habit always managed to cover it up sooner or later. The question was whether or not such things could be trusted… and if it wasn't more dangerous if genuine, this apparent sentiment.

"Ah, but I do not know you nearly well enough, I think, my dear Leliana." The elf didn't even seem to blink as he continued to watch her. For all the casual and almost lazy words, Leliana remained on her toes due to the distinct air of a snake attempting to ensnare and paralyze its prey before finding the excuse to land a killing blow.

Fortunately, she could be a viper herself, if required. After all, she had mentioned before that the two of them had quite a lot in common.

"You'll have to content yourself with your current knowledge, I fear." she noted, coming to the window to check if she perhaps wouldn't spot Nimue outside. She would have to put her greater speed and silence into consideration, but she continued to wonder what exactly had transpired – or, more importantly, why Nimue would leave her shoes behind, of all things. Usually, she handled whatever Zevran threw at her with dry wit, not running away. If that was indeed the case, of course.

The assassin, apparently tired of the rather passive approach, rose to his feet with a heavy sigh. Leliana couldn't really tell if it was because of her routine dismissal of his suggestions or due to having to part with the sheets his prime target wrapped around her body every night while at the castle."You aim to be disappointed. Dangling a most delicious bait in front of sharks and expecting them to bite?" Once more he tsked at her, especially when the bard made the mistake of turning back to him, if only for a moment. "I fail to see what you gain from the situation."

Then he knew, or at least wanted to make her believe he did. The brief crack in her façade had caused Zevran's chiding smile to widen; he had taken it as confirmation. Leliana didn't waste time berating herself internally. Denying things wasn't going to help her here and she had no intention of backing down from her plan, especially when even Wynne endorsed it.

"I want Nimue to be happy." she said, patiently, honestly. But this confrontation of her own plan had revealed some of the cards the assassin was holding as well. Leliana had wondered if he actually had genuine affection for their mage-Warden, or if it was simply lust that could be sated by any other woman that perhaps shared the color of her hair and eyes (if even that was necessary). She added this to her evidence of the former, and it tipped the scales heavily. "And, whatever side intentions you might have, I thought you did the same. Here she has her chance."

"Of course I do." There was a hint of scoffing embedded in the very words, though, punctuated by every step being taken towards her, until only the desk before the window and its adjacent chair was separating them. "But your definition of happiness would most likely involve fine clothes and shoes you Orlesians seem so fond of." Credit had to be given to the fact that Leliana didn't budge again, even when mischievous eyes swept her form from top to bottom, only to return to her face, mocking challenge still present. "Somehow, I doubt your vision would be shared by Nimue herself."

Another thing Leliana took note of was how Zevran referred to Nimue, using her title and a praising adjective whenever speaking to others and the mildly teasing "my dear" whenever speaking to her without patronizing. But her actual name he used only when something managed to make it through his defenses, or if he was actually serious, as in this case.

Did he think he knew what Nimue actually wanted? Leliana knew better than to ask, but the thought appeared, at least briefly.

"Be as it may, the final decision is up to her, not me." That didn't mean that the poor Circle mage couldn't be made to see reason from a more worldly point of view, of course. "All I can do is help her put things into perspective."

In essence, that was a revelation of intent, the laying down of the cards. And perhaps a bit of a warning, if not the slightest threat. Whichever applied, Zevran chuckled. "Oh, how devious of you, little bard." Whether he knew of the proposal of marriage was debatable, but one had to admire the nonchalance with which the assassin leaned on the desk, a wide grin still in place. And, as another (retired) professional, Leliana could freely admit that the way with which he summoned the image of desire was a downright art. "How is it that we have not made love yet?"

"Because the rest of the male population of Ferelden hasn't yet died out?" Leliana suggested, remembering her previous answer and first shield without batting an eyelash. Certainly, he was an attractive one, and the deeply-buried mischievous side of her reminded her that this could potentially be a lot of fun, but she had her faith in the Maker and genuinely good intentions to cling to now. Besides, it wasn't her that the assassin wanted, if her gut instinct was anything to go by.

"But we have so much in common, surely you must see it." Zevran, of course, was undeterred by this mildly irritating lack of cooperation, even though he didn't breach the boundaries of the bard's personal space. Apparently, his strategy was to melt the resistance from afar and have the prey come to him. "Besides, perhaps I could be persuaded to go along with your scheme to sell our fair Warden to the highest bidder."

Now that, she could never believe, not even if he had put it differently. "That suggestion might be more convincing if I didn't know you to be entirely loyal to her." With a step away, Leliana reaffirmed her territory, avoided the desk from the other side and calmly proceeded to return to the door. She would go search for Nimue elsewhere, while she still had the patience. "You might also choose a less crude wording for further attempts at deception."

"You see right through me, dear Leliana." Zevran's confession was just as easy as the rest of his words, though perhaps not entirely so empty. In any case, she apparently hadn't wounded his ego too much, with the way he returned to a straight stance like a stretching cat might. "How unfortunate that this skill of yours doesn't seem to extend to others."

Leliana ignored this potential criticism and clear jab win the same way she allowed the rest of his words brush over her without leaving any lasting impact. In the end, the most any of them could hope for was to pay their dues and steal what part they could in doing something good and worthwhile.

**o.O.o**

Next chapter preview: Shale, Oghren and Rabbit compare notes and perhaps raise the stakes as the party leaves Redcliffe, the general peace hanging in the balance.


	9. Parting Ever After

There was supposed to be another scheming scene between the three gamblers here, but the chapter got so long that I had to move it to a later part of the fic. Expect it soon, though! As for the next chapter, that might take a while – I wanted to get this update out of the way, because I have loads of uni work ahead of me and will likely have little time for further fanfiction writing in the next week or two.

**o.O.o**

**Parting Ever After**

**o.O.o**

"Have you everything you need? The deeper you go into the forest, the less opportunity you will have to trade and restock. Only the Dalish venture as far into the forest as you intend."

"It isn't our first trip into the wilderness." Alistair assured patiently, for what seemed to him the thousandth time that very day. Funny how no one had cared about the state of their stock while they had been Grey Wardens only; now when one was to be integrated into the nobility, apparently, a little hunger was too much to bear. "Too many supplies will only slow us down."

"Besides, some among us are skilled with the bow, Your Grace."

He was highly grateful for Leliana's presence, as he surely would have already exploded in Bann Teagan's face otherwise. He had chosen not to speak of his concerns regarding his candidacy for the throne with Eamon, instead choosing to avoid him for the day, if at all possible. The news of Teagan's intentions towards Nimue had shocked him, but it was only afterwards that he had managed to put things into context and understand why the Arl approved of the idea. It wasn't merely charity or good will on his part. Kings couldn't marry elves, after all, and this was a sure way to make certain his duty was the only thing left for him.

This was the removal of an obstacle, no matter how helpful it might be at the present time.

The goodwill he had regained for the Arl after Nimue had presented with the pendant she had found in the ransacked study was diminishing. His ten-year-old self was tempted to call out to the whole world that, as King, his word couldn't be disputed and he would marry Nimue if he so wished. But his current consciousness put a stop to the fit of childishness, pointing out the simple fact that the mage's own standing in the matter had to be determined before any kind of action could be taken.

"We will keep your former ward safe from harm, worry not."

Then again, having Leliana with him had drawbacks as well. In the current state of things, Alistair couldn't help the slightly paranoid suspicion that she, too, had something to do with the entire affair, if only out of a desire to see Nimue rewarded for her efforts. After all, as a Grey Warden, he could offer her little but his love and devotion. As King, he couldn't offer her the place at his side she deserved. Or, at least, that was how the bard likely saw it.

"There's no need to baby me while I'm in the room, you know." he remarked, frowning in what he really hoped would serve as a reprimanding manner.

But the bard merely grinned at him. Even though it wasn't patronizing, Alistair had to wonder how they expected him to run an entire country if he couldn't manage to stand up against a single Orlesian.

"Of course not. They grow up so fast, wouldn't you say?" she added to the Bann, lacing her voice with good-natured humor to remain cordial. With the perpetual politeness Teagan displayed (despite what Alistair now recognized as mild worry and perhaps pity that accompanied it), it was hard to tell what he thought of this.

Nimue saved him, as she always did, arriving – peculiarly – with the Arl himself, or rather, a few moments before him. Alistair was convinced this wasn't a coincidence in any way. Arl Eamon must have spoken to her already and perhaps pointed out more plainly the obstacles to their highly impolitic union. However, if one wasn't the fool, he could act like one, in any case. It was something he had plenty of experience with, even if not consciously employing the technique. It was a talent.

"There you are. We were almost considering leaving without you. A few more minutes and poof!" Gestures were helpful. As was laughing through tears, so to speak. "Gone with the wind."

Somehow, she managed to look ten times as beautiful in a mage's robe than in noble clothes, but Alistair could freely admit to a bias. She was smiling now, after all, whereas the dresses had made her obviously uncomfortable. "I had to see if Bodahn was ready to leave yet. Apparently, he managed to make a killing with the villagers and almost contemplated staying. Fortunately, there are too many arguments against the idea. Shale was good enough to help them pack… though I suspect it's because they got new augmentation crystals."

"Quite a magpie for a golem."

But having to share that smile with others wasn't comforting, especially since she didn't hesitate to award it to Teagan as well. "Be careful not to say that in front of Shale."

Alistair had never appreciated Sten quite as much as he did then, when the qunari approached Nimue to ensure that no further time was wasted. "There will be no more sidetracking, then, kadan." It wasn't a question, not like his remark regarding searching for the Urn had been. It was easy for Alistair to assume that Nimue had spoken to the warrior at length and assured him that there would be no more detours or unnecessary dawdling. She had likely won back quite some approval by that, even if Sten wasn't already prepared to trust her with his life, as he had said himself. "We go to seek these Dalish and then finish your task."

There, the Warden resurfaced, not as a mask, but as a side of Nimue that could interact with the qunari on terms understandable to them both. "As I swore to you." She had sworn? Now that was commitment indeed, if she had been willing to go that far for a simple complaint. "I've asked the emissaries to send word to their leaders of our destination and be ready." Her final words were for the Arl as well, now that all of her companions – save for Shale – were present. "We'll come back once our allies have been gathered, so you know when to go to Denerim and convince the Landsmeet."

But this managed to break even Alistair's concentration on not doing anything rash – that is, nothing that people would expect from him – and he focused his wide-eyed stare on the elf, even though it was Arl Eamon who posed the question on the tip of his own tongue.

"You aren't coming with us?"

"I am a nameless Grey Warden, bound by a pact of neutrality and without any voice among nobles." Which wasn't entirely true – no, scratch that, it was an utter and complete lie, but no one bothered correcting her – and, for the first time, it seemed that the Arl had no idea how to react to such a sudden contradiction of his own plans. Perhaps Nimue saw more than she let on, or perhaps she had plans of her own that didn't involve politics… or seeing the Guerrins ever again. That could just be wishful thinking on his part, of course, especially when the mage turned to him. "But if you'd consent, Alistair, you should go with them. You're needed there."

And he wasn't a nameless nobody who had survived with her? How flattering. But the answer was clear to him in an instant and would have been that way even if there wasn't the factor of such a move giving Zevran practically free reign to consider.

"Absolutely not." he said without hesitation. "The Grey Wardens stay together, no matter what happens. But I thought you wanted to bring Loghain to justice just as much as I do." They had almost died together, back at the Tower of Ishal. And the anger she had shown Uldred had been no lie. "Don't you remember the Circle tower?"

The way she could imitate the Tranquil while emitting frost showed that she preferred not to. "I do."

Alistair's gratitude towards Sten was negated the moment the qunari once again stepped into the conversation. "Vengeance isn't our priority here." When speaking to the former templar, Sten's tone was flatter, more like his dry, deadpan remarks from behind the bars of his cage way back in Lothering. Lothering, with its roses and thorns, unexpected allies and unpleasant surprises; all gone. "The Blight must always come first."

"Oh? I didn't hear you complaining when we took the time to seek out your lost sword?" It was a childish, cutting response, because they had managed to find the blade by pure chance, thanks to a series of coincidences – and, moreover, it was _Nimue_ who had undertaken the search for the sword, not all of them together.

Fortunately for all involved, the qunari had no patience for such nonsense. "Parshaara." And that was the end of it, as with most conversations where Sten decided it wasn't worth the effort. "This is pointless. If you fear a single old man and allow a child to take the throne, your politics can only hinder us." he added to the humans and Nimue, even knowing that the politics mentioned weren't hers.

"This isn't the time or place for such a discussion." Wynne had chosen to step up, if only for a moment. The senior enchanter still seemed to maintain the notion that both the Wardens needed someone to be their parental figure, or at least an orderly presence in a world of chaos. "We must first seek out the elves… then our next course of action can be discussed."

But Nimue ignored her, for once, looking at him and only him; this was a rare thing nowadays, rare enough to be treasured and received with mild anxiety. "I'm not trying to drive you away or ignore Loghain's wrongs. But whatever happens, the Blight is what we set out to stop." she said, maintaining a soothing tone. "Whatever we must do along the way, we cannot forget that final goal."

Just as this was about to work, Morrigan raised her nose from her own pack, stuck it high in the air and scoffed at the effort. "Reason will never win against the stubbornness of idiots, Nimue. If you are quite finished with the vain efforts to change that, perhaps we should leave?"

Alistair would have gladly vented his own frustrations on such a perfect reason to start a cutting argument with the swamp witch, but in the middle of his own snarky efforts, he managed to hear a brief exchange that gripped his heart and maintained that pressure even after Leliana managed to break up their biting snipes.

"Nimue, a moment, if I may."

"Of course."

"'Tis a surprisingly informal address, from one so obsessed with propriety." Morrigan murmured, almost to herself as she watched the sudden development and the general change in the atmosphere it brought, which not even the arrival of that foolish woman, Isolde and her now-empty doll of a son could interrupt.

"Wait."

The boy merely served to halt the change briefly, smooth the transition, as it were, running up to Nimue despite the clear hesitance on his mother's part. He presented the mage with a small blue leather-bound book. It was too thin to be a tome of learning, but it was an interesting thing nonetheless. A lifetime of observing mortals had allowed Morrigan to learn the art of reading lips, but the child was still close enough to be audible, despite his murmuring.

"The mages took Jowan's books back, but they left this… the First Enchanter said that you might like to have it. No one else has read it."

The shadow of tension passed through Nimue's face, but she maintained the mask of politeness. Morrigan got the sense that she would have thrown the "gift" back in the giver's face, if it weren't a child. "Thank you." she said simply. "That is very kind of you."

Connor, however, wasn't looking for thanks. "You'll make them go away, won't you?" he asked, but it wasn't entirely a question. Something within him knew, or believed. "Just like you did with the bad lady."

And even if she hadn't given voice to the words, some practiced assurance, if not conviction, broke into her expression before the child returned to his mother and she turned her attention to the man who had asked to speak with her. "I will. I will."

"What did you give her there, Connor? A book of spells?" Lady Isolde couldn't quite bring herself to chiding her own child, but at least she had the sense to look worried now. If having one's child possessed by a demon couldn't show one the wrong ways of parenting, nothing could, truly. "I thought the mages have asked you not to read them without permission this time."

But the boy seemed comfortable around Nimue at this point and shook his head without fright or hesitation. He had become more comfortable around strangers in these past weeks. "It isn't spells. Irving said it's about her. Like a journal."

Wynne, watching the scene, decided to remember to thank Irving when she saw him next. The first enchanter had returned to the tower out of necessity, but their paths would nonetheless cross again. "That was very thoughtful of you, child." she noted gently, something that she intended to repeat to Irving, save for the child part, of course. "I understand she and Jowan were close as apprentices."

Lady Isolde momentarily looked as if a poisonous snake had bitten her. "Close?" Disdain for mages notwithstanding, she had learned to suppress it enough to allow conversation, at least. "You mean…?"

"Best friends, I understand." Wynne answered succinctly. Honestly, the first thing these Orlesians jumped to had to be intrigue and dirty secrets. It was more telling about their own nature than of those they observed.

Isolde looked a breath away from putting a hand over her own heart, so obvious her relief. "Oh. Pardon my surprise, but that… that is a relief." At least she had the strength to admit it, though Wynne didn't really believe the reasons for that were as commendable as the sentiment. "I still have some regret over not being able to pass judgment on the man myself and… I would not want more bad blood between myself and the Warden. You need not deny that she resents me." She had been surprised; actually, that Nimue hadn't chosen to sacrifice her, given the opportunity for a much quicker solution to her troubles.

"She understands. She isn't a mother." But that had little to do with things and Wynne idly wondered when she had picked up Nimue's own habit of trying to control the situation through empty assurances and a snake charmer's tune. "There are different kinds of strength."

"Perhaps, but she understands the cruelty of mercy." The noble lady fidgeted slightly, gently caressing her son's head even as her eyes strayed to her brother-in-law and the mage in question. "Her refusal of my sacrifice has taken away my chance for atonement." Isolde sighed deeply, regretting most that she felt so little regret, as long as Connor was alive and safe. "If someone had told me a year ago that I would be willing to accept a mage as my sister-in-law, I would have considered them mad. The Maker's way of teaching man is sometimes strange and difficult."

These careless words weren't detrimental to the events in motion – not that they could stop them if they were – but Wynne nonetheless glanced briefly at Leliana, who was taking care not to appear as if she had no right to listen in. with one eye, the bard kept an eye on her project and the other strayed most often to Zevran, who was within earshot and not in a conversation with anyone, therefore very capable of drawing his own conclusions. But the elf seemed rather keenly focused on their Warden leader, who now stood with the Arl's brother at a distance just about bordering on polite yet mildly intrusive.

Nimue looked far less confident that her practiced standard… and that was the last on the list of reasons why it was an interesting situation worth observing.

"I would wish you good luck, but I hope that it is redundant at this point." Seeing her standing there in full battle gear, ready to rain death upon all that opposed her, was a reassuringly familiar sight. It also signified that were things yet standing between their potential union, reminiscent of the day she had first come to Redcliffe, seeking Eamon's aid. As back then, the sight of her inspired hope, first and foremost. Somehow, even with the danger they were facing, things seemed within reach when someone was there to take the reins; someone trusted, capable. "You have the very Maker on your side, milady, of that I am certain."

After so many times of hearing that word, the mage's lips twitched only a little, only for a moment. Whether it was a smile or a mild flinching – possibly a combination of both – was debatable. But her voice now had a calm strength behind it, quite the opposite of the broken surprise of their previous and unexpected conversation.

"I thought we had agreed that you need not address me as such." she reprimanded gently. "Even ignoring the… recent developments." A frown of confusion creased her brow when the response to this quite reasonable request was a quiet laugh. "What is it?"

"Nothing at all." Teagan was coming to understand what people were getting at when mentioning that humans found those of elven blood particularly attractive. Had she been human, Nimue wouldn't have struck anyone as anything more than interesting; but the slightest slant to her eyes, the bird-like elegance to her features and the smooth lines of her race's most obvious features were all exotic and appealing. "Here you stand, a fearsome slayer of darkspawn, shirking from a simple conversation because of mere uncertainty."

This time, she didn't shirk, nor did she try to put on any kind of façade, despite their audience. It wasn't as though the movement in the chamber had completely stilled to focus on her and Teagan, but Nimue was aware that there were several pairs of eyes watching them with more or less interest, waiting for resolution. And, as much as it pained her to get into unnecessary conflict with anyone, she knew that the matter of the marriage proposal would come out eventually. Being a coward now would solve nothing.

"Everyone fears the unknown. Conquering that fear is part of the challenge." And she had feared the whole world upon entering it, as it feared her. Now… well, she had learned not to fear this man, at the very least, and thus remembered the final relevant argument against their union that Wynne had presented. "I should tell you something before I leave. Due to the changes after the Joining, Grey Wardens are faced with infertility problems. I've been told it's possible but unlikely for one to have a child." Though there was little change in Teagan's expression as she spoke, Nimue wasn't entirely certain what answer she was looking for. "If this affects your offer, please tell me so now."

Relief or regret? The retraction of the proposal would bring one of these, most certainly – perhaps both – but Nimue had absolutely no idea what side of the scale would tip down.

Once Teagan managed to process this information, understanding came. "You have spoken with Eamon, I see." She didn't need to answer, truly; of course his brother would intervene, directly or no. the concern was touching, but not too necessary. "The question of an heir is something to consider, certainly… but with the loss of Connor, I imagine Isolde might wish for another child to mother herself." In which case, that child could easily be named heir to Redcliffe without any problems. "Besides, unlikely doesn't equal impossible. It would only be a problem if you didn't wish for children at all. I do hope that isn't the case; if you'll permit my boldness, it would be a great shame."

Any child with even a single human parent would be a human, but had an equal likelihood of inheriting her features as it did its father's. This time, the elf's eyes flickered away. It might be best not to delve too deeply into the topic of heirs and offspring now, when nothing about Ferelden's – let alone Redcliffe's – future was certain. The notion of marriage, let alone to a human and a noble at that, seemed to have stunned Nimue so utterly before, to bring pregnancy and motherhood into question could have a detrimental effect on her positive attitude towards the arrangement.

"It isn't something I've given a great deal of thought." she admitted, once the idea sank in a little. Her youth was also something to take into consideration; Teagan could plainly see that there was an age gap of at least ten years between them. That was beneficial in many aspects, but certainly not in the case of parenthood when on this thin ice. But a weight fell off his heart when the immediate reaction wasn't retreat. "I'm not expressively against the possibility, should it happen."

"Good." That wasn't the correct word, really; it was marvelous, wonderful, this idea of a coexistence in compromise. She couldn't get out of answering now, Maker willing. "Is there any other Grey Warden-specific reason you believe would affect my wish to marry you that you want to inform me of? I wouldn't want you agonizing over anything except perhaps the gentlest way of letting me down. No, not even that, I hope."

"Nothing I haven't already told you comes to mind." Teagan fell a little in love with the quirk of her smile at that moment, though few would have noticed. Among those who did was Isolde, who came along with Connor just a moment or so prior. "Aside from the repeated warning that what happened to Connor might one day happen to me. Occupation hazard of having magic at your disposal, I fear."

"From what the mages told me, this has to do with emotions spiraling out of control." As Connor had tried to save his father and unwittingly turned towards a demon in the process, this could happen with any mage. But those that had been properly trained surely had a lower chance of possession, especially one as exceptional as her. And Nimue surely would have said more instead of merely bobbing her head in affirmative if there was more to know. "Well, then, my goal in life will be maintaining an atmosphere of happiness and peace for you. That is hardly a more daunting concept than what any marriage faces, wouldn't you say?"

Wistful; that was the only way to describe her face. There were hints of a blush around her cheekbones, but nothing deeper than the softest paints a well-born lady might use.

"I actually believe you when you say that." A disbelieving laugh colored her voice, even though the lilting sound never actually escaped her lips. Something unexpected for her, at least, at last. In that moment, Teagan was glad that she had chosen to delay her answer. Letting her go was easier that way.

Easier didn't mean easy; but duty remained a necessity, and this was no Orlesian wallflower that needed protection, or an Antivan temptress that struck with kindness and poison only.

"Good; this means you aren't entirely impervious to my charms." It was a jest and Nimue understood it as such, but there was a grain of truth in it, as with most humor. Speaking to a man who could stand on his own without hiding behind any mask was something new and different to her, and part of her preferred such simplicity. It defined things just a little clearer for her. "We can work on that part once you return. When this is over…" Gently, two hands grasped her right, raising it almost entreatingly. The mage blinked once, twice, but didn't protest. "Nimue, please understand that I have no intention of pushing you into the marriage." But the fingers brushing against her knuckles spoke of a different wish, even restrained by propriety as it was. "Your life has gone through a great many changes in the past months and I realize that all this might be too much at once."

But Nimue shook her head with almost cutting resolution, blonde hair whipping around her face. In comparison to the human hairstyles Leliana had tried to impose upon her, she may as well have done nothing with her hair after waking up and still managed to look dignified.

"No. There has been enough waiting. Should I consent… if I say yes, I don't want to waste time without reason." This was a promise to both of them, something she had decided on after leaving the tower. Even before knowing that her lifespan had likely been halved, she had understood that it was unlikely for a Grey Warden to survive long, if they survived the Blight at all. She could die at any time; because of that, she had to live, while she could. "You've been generous enough to give me time to decide; to ask more would be selfish and wrong. I want to live, not linger."

There was something cold in this resolution, like a battle plan would be, but Teagan barely cared. Not that it was needed to be shown in such plainly obvious hints, but it seemed the Maker was nothing if not thorough in showing when something was his will or work.

"You shouldn't have told me that." His grip on the small hand tightened just a little, an affirmation of the smallest kind. There were many eyes upon them now, following this motion keenly, but it mattered very little, if not at all. They were standing close, but not beyond the boundaries of decorum, which would have surely enticed a more profound reaction from their observers. "How will I now be able to focus on preparing our troops, if all my thoughts are devoted to you? Would you leave me something of yours, at least, to console me in your absence? Even if I were to return it to you afterwards."

Usually, it was the knight leaving to battle when tokens of affection were exchanged, leaving the noble lady behind, but Teagan wasn't a man of insurmountable pride. After all, he had been beaten down by this woman before (even in the madness of demonic possession that must surely have heightened his ignorance of pain) and freely acknowledged her as a superior if unconventional warrior. Theirs was a relationship to be based on defying conventions; what was another one on the list, in truth?

"Oh. I'm afraid I have little besides what you see… and I doubt anything I own would qualify as a suitable token." Nimue confessed, looking just a little uncomfortable with the idea. As a mage, she had owned only that which had been given to her by the Circle. Today, she owed much to pillaging the bodies of those they had been forced to slay and the plundered riches of adventuring. Still, her entire wealth was to be spent on potion ingredients and weapons upkeep, not what Leliana would have considered finer things. Even the little jewelry she wore was made of magical talismans, not decorations. "Not that I have any idea what it might be, even if I had it."

Teagan had anticipated an answer of this kind. There was an alternative; one which he wouldn't have presented, had it not been for the assuring effect her previous words had had.

"A boon, then, if you will indulge me."

Keenly aware of how far she was pushing things by delaying her decision by weeks, Nimue saw no reason to refuse. "If it's within my power, certainly." she said, nodding without question.

It was odd, being looked at as something precious, but surprisingly easy to get used to as well. Neither of their hands were particularly smooth or delicate; it was impossible, after practicing swordplay till the natural calluses developed or casting the very elements from your fingertips. But it was as welcoming as such a gesture could get, especially with the brief caress behind it. Without ever looking away, one hand released hers, only to rest beneath her chin, tipping her face just a hair's breadth upwards. The mage's breath stilled only for an instant. She knew this, knew what it meant, even if she hadn't truly expected it.

If she hadn't been so close, she would have missed the barely-contained hunger in Teagan's eyes. They were blue, like hers, but whereas she was often told that her glances were cold, a mage might have been worried if there wasn't a flame blast spell at work here, considering this intensity. His voice, however, didn't contain the slightest trace of a struggle with himself.

"May I, Nimue?"

Strange how such a question that could have very easily been used as an offer of one's arm to cross a particularly wide puddle sounded. Yet there was every indication that, should she refuse, he would withdraw without faulting her in any way.

Leliana, first and foremost to watch the development of her plans after the avoidance debacle (something which Nimue had yet to comment on, busy as she had been with the actual avoiding), darted several glances around the room, primarily directed at the two major obstacles to her scheme. Alistair, in the middle of an apparently shaky farewell to his former guardian, had frozen in a manner reminiscent of Blood Mage mind domination. There was one quick moment of an explosion behind his eyes, filled with all of the emotions he didn't know how to express – or, more likely, restrained himself from showing. And then, he was forcibly looking away, keeping his eyes fixed on the person he was speaking to at the time.

Arl Eamon was watching him in a similar manner. He and the bard shared a single thought regarding this situation; he knew. Somehow, he had found out, despite the efforts to postpone this discovery both of them had made. And yet he did nothing; had done nothing. Alistair hadn't confronted either of them about their obvious involvement in the makings of this arrangement. Neither liked this idea, because it meant that their interference in the future would have to be all the harsher. For Leliana, this would likely be sooner than later, considering the time she spent around the heir apparent daily.

Wynne, too, allowed the voice of the mage she was speaking to fade out of her perception for a moment, but her gaze darted into Zevran (once it became clear that there would be no abrupt reaction on Alistair's part, which Leliana had covered, in any case). Contrary to Alistair's movements, the assassin had gone very still without changing his demeanor much, merely observing. There was also no frantic interchange between glancing at one of the pair before turning to the other; his eyes seemed fixed on a single spot on the mage's face. It was as if he intended to memorize every movement of her lips, be it breath or word, which would determine his next move.

He didn't look like one burning with jealousy, or a man whose heart had suffered a fatal blow. In fact, he looked more like a guard expecting the slightest gesture from his employer to whip out a secret dagger and strike it into the throat of an enemy, with complete dispassion accompanying the motion. Leliana, once given the chance to compare the two, disagreed with this. Observation, analysis and contemplation. She herself knew this process from personal experience. It was how one evaluated the situation before choosing a means of intervention, be it through words or through blades. Of the two, it was clear to her which was more dangerous.

As for Nimue, one would think she was facing several can-can dancing darkspawn in bright tutus, for all the surprise she showed in the span of a few moments. It was indeed well within her ability to give, without too high a cost to her, but it was also a gesture with lasting impact, a declaration of intent, in front of everyone. Then, there was the factor of shyness to consider. But she knew she had pushed things as far as reasonably possible, further than polite, perhaps… and it wasn't as if she was in any way repulsed by the notion.

It was just that experience had taught her to contemplate the depth of the water before taking the plunge. Quite unlike her aid of Jowan, really.

But she was getting sidetracked in her own thoughts, which was an inadvisable course of action. While she had never entertained the notion that she would require love for something so fleeting, it struck her as appropriate to be sharing even such a small thing with a man who had impressed her as few succeeded to nowadays.

"Yes." she said at last, the word sounding akin to a final breath. "You may."

Something in the air broke the moment the contact of their lips commenced, though it would have been difficult to tell at first glance.

To say that Nimue had kissed many would be a gross overstatement. In fact, the number of people who had been given the debatable honor could be counted on one hand. Even one that had lost a few fingers due to an accident of any kind. The early lessons in life one was taught in the Alienage she had spent the earliest years of her young life in included the knowledge that a spouse would be chosen for her, therefore pre-marital dalliances were pointless. And while in the Circle, she had always been the bookworm, the know-it-all, the protégée. Not an appealing prospect for those that mistook dedication for frigidness and drive for coldness.

Perhaps this was why it felt like kissing a raw current, a creature just barely hidden behind a sheen of magic and power. But the touch was gentle, inviting, and, for once, surrender didn't mean any true risk. Even if the mage's response was tentative at first, easing only moments into the kiss, her arms remaining motionless. Such posture made the entire gesture almost chaste, but not quite enough. Not sufficiently to not give their observers pause.

And if there was anything Nimue's other potential suitors had ever had in common, it was the first thought that surfaced in their minds upon witnessing this, aided either by direct evidence or entirely precise guesswork.

The image of a bride with Nimue's face, taking vows to another, honoring them (because she would, if she made them), making love to him alone and, perhaps, if the Maker was feeling particularly heartless, birthing and raising his children (going against all odds, as she always did). The initial reaction to that vision matched as well.

No. A resolute refusal. Not a rejection of the very idea, if this represented what she indeed wanted, but a refusal to accept this as the only imaginable future of happiness for her, what she might want, if she wasn't given other options.

It took all of the unceremonious arrival of Oghren to break the moment to pieces.

"Cough up, ya genlock-humping fuzzball." The dwarf grinned viciously at the mabari warhound; it was impossible to tell whether he was drunk or not. His next statement didn't exactly bring more clarity to that enigmatic statement. "And gimme back my best pants while you're at it."

Diplomatically, the dog said nothing when some of this newly gathered attention focused on him.

Nimue stifled a sign. So much for having a peaceful yet poignant moment. Teagan didn't move away from her, though decorum perhaps demanded it; these were the last few moments they had together for Maker knew how many weeks. To squander them now would be foolish, if they had nothing further to hide.

"You couldn't have given me a gift more precious, except perhaps your consent." Apparently, the noble was exceedingly good at ignoring things when necessary, which was a skill Nimue herself had been cultivating only recently. However, it took a true master to be able to ignore Oghren if one wasn't exposed to him at a regular basis. "But such treasures are entirely worth waiting for."

The elf glanced down, upon their still joined hands. The Guerrin signet ring she had returned seemed to look right back at her, reminding her of all that she could gain and all that it would cost, having this as her third bond. The Circle hadn't been Till Death Do Us Part, as Niall had predicted for her. With the Wardens, it was inevitable. But with this man, she could choose that.

"Such things you say… I never know what to answer." She had never had a choice in binding herself to something before, after all.

"That you will return safely… and as soon as you can. You promised me an answer."

Playing the duty card proved to be the correct selection. She let go, true, but her glance as she answered was resolution itself.

"I always keep my promises."

But that was still a cheap, incomplete answer, and not something a trained diplomat would accept as proper assurance. "Do I have your word, then?"

Surprised only for a moment, the mage nodded, sealing the promise within a promise. "If you wish it, yes, you do."

The second interruption came courtesy of Morrigan, who had tired of observing the unimaginatively clench-jawed reactions of Alistair to these developments. She had seen enough shattered templars at the Circle and it had ceased to be amusing shortly afterwards.

"'Twould be advisable to leave before nightfall, Nimue?" she prodded, breaching the unspoken barrier standing between their leader, the nobleman apparently vying for her hand and the rest of the world.

"Yes." The elf passed through the glass too, apparently unchanged by the experience. "Onward we go."


	10. Rainfall for Ever After

As I'm down with a cold, I'm stuck in my dorm and have very little to do except wait for my copy of Mass Effect 2, due tomorrow (daaaamn you, USA, for getting advance copies!), watch DVDs and play chess with my cheating lump of a computer (never allows me to move the pieces correctly), I've had time to get to writing this chapter.

Teagan's still in the lead of this poll, but voting is still open, so feel free to contribute with your thoughts and votes. The insanity is finally beginning properly! Oh, and this chapter features more Alistair, since everyone seemed to like his involvement in the last two chapters. Zevran had a scene here as well, but Morrigan weaseled her way into another scene of her own and I seem to enjoy writing her quite a lot, so I just ran with it. Yeah, Zevran will have to wait for the next chapter.

**o.O.o**

**Rainfall for Ever After**

**o.O.o**

Before the actual departure, before the sudden change of the playing field, there was yet one final confrontation to be dealt with.

Someone, at least, was enjoying themselves at Redcliffe Castle; Oghren was making full use of the wine cellar of the castle, lounging around the kitchen whenever possible as well. Not that most of those he travelled with weren't decent cooks (aside from Alistair, naturally), but having an honest-to-goodness cooking staff around was practically heaven, especially since there was only a very slight risk that any of them would try to poison him.

It was also an excellent way to keep possible eavesdroppers away; everyone knew the dwarf by reputation now, and when their warhound's rather fine appetite was added to the mixture, it was highly doubtful that anyone with the slightest sense in their body would try to venture anywhere close there.

This meant that mealtimes were excellent for strategy discussions between the trio of gamblers, especially when notes were supposed to be compared.

This was before the official proclamation of the possibility of engagement, which meant that the playing field was still rather leveled; no one knew who exactly had the advantage. And so, naturally, each assumed that they were the one ahead of the race, knowing Nimue as they believed they did.

Shale was beginning to regret the sudden decision to exchange boredom for novelty in terms of betting, because it meant having to spend time with Oghren and the dog; if only to make certain that they didn't resort to cheating. At least, not more cheating than Shale herself would resort to.

Apparently, though, that was beneath the intelligence of at least half of her opposition, which meant that there wasn't much of a challenge. Oghren was simply celebrating victory already, from the way things appeared.

"The drunken dwarf is being foolishly overconfident." Shale didn't necessarily think that any number of reprimands on her part would stop its nonsense in any way, but it might at least provide a halt to the consistent vomiting. The fluids were rather disgusting, even to the dog. "After the night's departure, the enchantress will be removed from the castle. The dwarf will lose its trump card. It will be weeks until we return to the puny village. It cannot possibly expect the painted elf not to make its move in that time."

Predictably, the vomiting stopped only for a moment, but the splashing of ale everywhere most certainly didn't. The dwarf was confident in its victory by now. "Yeah? Well sod it, I must have missed Nim's rutting-depraved streak, then." it crowed, taking yet another deep gulp of its vicious brew. The dog whinnied a little, reproachful, as if noting that nothing was certain. "Keep telling yourself that and you might even get convinced. The Warden'll never turn into Miss Yo-Yo Knickers and 's long as she keeps up the frigid virgin act, it's all or nothin' with her." Shale rightly suspected that if she were flesh, the triumphant sneer she received would have been a full-out leer. "He doesn't stand a chance."

The warhound grudgingly admitted that the hound noble wasn't perhaps entirely the wrong option for its mistress. He did give good biscuits when in the vicinity, which could only be a good sign. The dwarf, splashing ale around, attempted to hit it with its tankard.

"Hah! You're not weaseling out of giving me that prize, mongrel!" the dwarf crooned. It was one of the few organics that didn't allow itself to be manipulated by the dog in any way, not even by the so-called sad eyes. Well, not too much, in any case; it ceased with the wild tankard movements in a while. At least after a dismissive wave of its other hand. "Eh, you'll be mooching off her and that rotten son of a whore for the rest of your life; you can stand to give up a few meals."

"That is assuming the enchantress acts according to its predictions." Shale couldn't help but grumble. This unashamed self-confidence and gloating reminded her of Wilhelm and that always made her want to crush things. Of course, beating the drunken dwarf at its own game and then being given the chance to gloat in its face would no doubt be much more satisfying than crushing its mead-filled skull right now. No matter how tempting that might be.

Which was very tempting, of course.

Especially when the dwarf sniggered as vilely as it was doing now. "'Course she will." It said that as if it were beyond any doubt. This would have probably been more troublesome if the enchantress were a dwarf; fortunately, it being elven, it was about as far from the dwarf on the evolutionary ladder as it could be while still remaining fleshy. "She'd be stupid not to… and potentially not female, 'cause that would go against a normal woman's mindset." the dwarf added. It was surprising that it was still able to use words this big, despite its entirely intoxicated state. "Maybe just really many columns short of a hall."

That was an apt description of the dwarf's own mental state, if someone asked Shale for comments, but she wasn't about to get involved in pointless discussions. "Why does it believe the enchantress would be insane not to accept? Refusing copulation with a squishy male of its species or anything close to it seems logical, if it is unable or unwilling to reproduce. So much liquid involved…" The golem almost shuddered, or tried to do so. Since she felt very little in the way of human physical sensations, parts of the motion were obviously fabricated. "Disgusting."

Ever the rational one, the warhound interjected with a resolute bark. Nothing was certain until his mistress explicitly gave her word to one of the males; and even then, things would be up in the air until she actually mated with one of them or – at the very least – openly chose to stay with him. Until then, the bet was on.

"Cheating nug-licking little…" the dwarf continued muttering to himself, but couldn't really think of a way of contradicting reasonable logic. Shale was just glad it had managed to shut the nuisance up. Really, the dog was the only reasonable one of the bunch, aside from the enchantress itself. And maybe the elder mage and the sister, if they were in the right mood.

Fortunately, the drunk wasn't given the time to find a loophole; there was movement on the stairs leading to this place and the door opened in a tentative manner that suggested who the person on the other side was quite clearly. At least, it did to the mabari; he would have recognized the herbal – vaguely clinical, one might suppose – scent of his mistress practically anywhere.

"Oghren?" The door creaked, revealing the finally robed and armed figure of the enchantress. It almost backed away from the smell, but the shimmering shield seemed to be able to at least partly repel it. "Have you seen- ah, Shale, I was just looking for you."

"Hey, Nim." Even though the conversation wasn't focused on it any longer, the dwarf waved clumsily in the elf´s general direction. It didn't have enough liquid in its tankard to spill by then. "Just trying out the last of the goods here. You should take a sip yerself; last day of having private quarters is almost at an end."

And they all knew what that meant, of course; the thin fabric walls of a tent allowed complaints through much more easily. Nor did they stop anyone who wished to enter on a whim, making it harder to throw said person out. Plus, they were flammable if a mage had to resort to more drastic methods. On the long run, all of these were equally important.

Nimue grimaced a little, but thought better of whatever she had been considering saying. "I'll save that for the actual journey, thanks." Or it could just be the smell keeping her away; you never knew. "We'll be leaving in an hour or so and Bodahn's packing up. He has to leave some of his stuff here due to weight restrictions, so if you want something, just give the word and I'll get it for you. Otherwise, it's staying here until we return and might get sold to the villagers."

**o.O.o**

They could have gotten horses at Redcliffe, but Nimue decided against it; not only would it mean they would require far more supplies to feet many more mouths, it wouldn't change their speed significantly. Shale wouldn't have been able to ride on two horses, let alone one. And with the degree of intoxication Oghren was usually prone to, it was highly questionable that he could remain mounted for longer than a few seconds, at worse, a few minutes at best.

Besides, almost none of them had ever ridden a horse before in their lives, meaning that without some training, they wouldn't reach their destination before the archdemon got bored with this whole Blight business and moved on to take a vacation somewhere warmer and sunnier than the rainy plains of Ferelden.

Crossing distances during rainfall was one of the more annoying aspects of cross-country travel. At least the mages could create shields of mana around themselves (not that it helped against the mud that still continued to find a way to cling to their boots, out of a resemblance of fairness in the world). The rest of them had to make do with heavy cloaks or other fabrics… or simply try to hold on and hope that whatever cold-curing magic Wynne had at her disposal would be effective later on. Only Leliana had had the foresight to invest some of her money in an umbrella – and back then, everyone had called her foolish and fanciful for purchasing such a useful item, good only for show.

Right now, even Oghren probably wouldn't have minded holding the frilly pink thing, if only it helped him stay dry. Of course, Shale had to comment on this once or twice, straight into the rhythmic tapping of raindrops against his armor.

As this was going on at the back of the group, though, Nimue herself heard very little (read: nothing) of it, enjoying what was left of the silence even as she marched on deeper into the woods. Her mind wandered a little, remembering the parting of two days ago with mild confusion. She still didn't really know what she was supposed to think about this, or in what new and inventive awkward ways she would have to address this development when others brought it up. Right now, she was simply grateful to be away and on the road, given room to think.

After all, fighting darkspawn was nothing compared to juggling words and options, all the while trying to remain in everyone's good books.

Apparently sharing her opinion on the priceless factor of peace and quiet, Morrigan appeared at her side, keeping the pace. Both of them had a weak shield up – just enough to keep the rain away, but one that would crack like an eggshell at any hint of a magical or melee attack. It was rather like having fireflies around; pretty, but useless, to paraphrase Flemeth on this one occasion. Credit had to be given to the fact that Morrigan still managed to look intimidating, despite the small spheres of light that hovered around her, flickering now and then.

"'Tis not what I would have expected from you." Her methods of starting a conversation were still as succinct as ever, if this was anything to go by, but of course she wouldn't have approached without a good reason to do so. As for the swamp witch herself, she was a bit disappointed. She had actually been looking forward to the moment Nimue would crush the imbecile's quasi-romantic aspirations with her usual deft touch – all the more humiliation for Alistair. But no doubt Leliana had a hand in this. "I thought you valued your recently-gained freedom somewhat higher than to give it up so soon."

Nimue, who had been expecting this kind of discussion from anyone _but_ Morrigan, sighed just a little. If the world went at least a little according to her predictions, everything would be fine within moments. But no, the Maker had to have his own ideas about stuff.

"To set the record straight; he's proposed to me and I've asked for time to consider it." she explained, keeping her eyes on the road. Peculiar that Morrigan of all people should be interested, but then again, boredom did tend to have detrimental and potentially horrifying effects on people. "So until I say yay or nay, I haven't given up anything. I'm perfectly free to make my own choice regarding the matter."

The witch's thin eyebrows rose, partly concealed by her flyaway fringe. Someone had prepared a little defensive speech here, but obviously not for her. It was far likelier that this was the first draft of a justification rant to wipe any objections off the table. "Getting a little touchy, are we?" she teased, relishing a bit in the thought that she could guess who this effort was going to be targeted at, in the end. "I thought this was what friends were for; pointing out things you yourself do not wish to see."

A heavy branch got in Nimue's way; instead of swathing it out of her path, she ducked. Perhaps there was indeed something to the connection between elves and nature; Morrigan would have simply set the bush ablaze, had it not been raining. Or hacked it apart, if it continued to offend. More likely, she would be travelling in animal form anyway, making all these motions pointless.

"You haven't yet done anything like that." Flemeth may have exaggerated a bit when proclaiming that Nimue had an open mind, but it certainly wasn't made of mush; for a Circle mage – no, for a person of any kind, especially the kind Morrigan usually encountered – the elf was highly perceptive.

A shame that she wasn't a man, though that was one of the reasons why she was beyond simply tolerable, Morrigan thought for a moment. Using Alistair for her plan was something she truly didn't wish to think about, but unless there were other Grey Wardens with only recent taint coursing through their veins, there was little chance of anything else.

"Perhaps I have yet to get to that moment. In any case, 'tis hardly what I wished to speak to you about." At the moment, there were other concerns than this, though, which would have to wait for the night before the final battle. Assuming they survived that long, of course. "How do you intend to locate these elves we are searching for? Moreover, how can we be certain that the clan we find will respond to the treaty at all?"

Logically, Nimue herself had to be thinking of such concerns too, if the almost mechanical way she responded was any indication. "The treaty was signed long ago, presumably before the war that turned them into nomads. In which case, the keeper of every clan should be familiar with it and respond… or, at the very least, be aware of what the Grey Wardens require and that he or she is obliged to provide aid." Her step was a bit heavier, but the shield didn't flicker.

Morrigan almost gave a small smirk. When you couldn't persuade others to cooperate, you could always intimidate them into submission. "You could always merely threaten to conscript some of them; you have yet to exercise that right properly."

"I don't know how the Joining works besides the drinking of darkspawn blood." Still, temptation was written in her face, even though of course the elf would never admit it. She didn't really fancy this whole leader business and, as far as allies went, Alistair was a highly useful warrior but not so big on the whole giving information to new Grey Warden recruits business. Probably because he hadn't been told much more than what Nimue already knew. "Duncan said that it required preparations made by the Circle as well, so I assume it requires further ingredients added to the blood to make it effective. Drinking it raw would probably just poison whoever was involved. Besides, we need them all alive to fight, not just one or two with only vaguely useful powers of detection."

"That is self-explanatory." Morrigan nodded. It would have been fascinating to watch the Joining from start to finish, learning of these ancient rituals. In a sense, it was like blood magic, only twisted, corrupted and – this was also self-explanatory – tainted. Flemeth had taught her about the Grey Wardens, but she had never said anything about these things, the truly interesting ones. "'Twould be more logical to have at least one or two more Grey Wardens, however. Weren't there supposed to be the reinforcements from Orlais coming so long ago? Surely some of them must have entered Ferelden to investigate the situation."

"True, but the chances of finding them are much lower than us managing to find the Dalish." Nimue stopped only for a moment, glancing around. The air was too damp to allow proper breathing and she was certain even their shields wouldn't keep the water out of their boots for much longer. At times, she actually missed having a roof over her head, be it the Tower or, more recently, Redcliffe Castle. "We must assume that they won't come. Which I don't really understand, because they must have heard about the king's death… anyway, it's all up to us, as usual."

That shrug certainly possessed none of the wide-eyed idealism she had displayed upon initially being told that she was free from the Circle's influence and could roam the world as she wished. Well, provided she put a stop to the Blight, anyway. Morrigan much preferred this jaded and relatively wise Nimue to the previous version, even though the signs had been prominent even then.

"How cheerful. I wouldn't be surprised if these Grey Wardens of yours showed up only in the aftermath of the whole battle to congratulate you on your victory and to claim you among their recruits." Therein lay another thought she wondered about. "Are Grey Wardens permitted to marry, abandoning their order for a time, so to speak?"

"All I want in exchange for fighting this Blight with all the strength I have is the chance to live my life as I wish it afterwards." Again, this seemed to be an answer she had been preparing for some time, and not for Morrigan's benefit. "If they refuse to grant me even that, I have no use for them."

They would certainly be in no position to stop her, assuming she came through for them. The witch laughed a little inwardly. It was almost a pity that she couldn't afford to stay for the post-battle celebrations. Certainly it would be a sight to see, the newcomers trying to convince Nimue that her place was now with them. Catching a bird once was hard enough. Catching one that has flown from its previous cage could prove to be nearly impossible.

"Ah. You retain some sense yet." Which was about as much of a compliment as anyone could hope to receive from the likes of her. "Perhaps we should scout ahead for a while?" Morrigan suggested, glancing through the trees as if she could see beyond them. "'Twould seem there will be little opportunity to set up camp once we leave the clearing."

Nimue considered only for a moment before making a pre-agreed sign to Wynne. Once the elderly mage caught it and understood, she gave a single nod.

"Yes, let's."

And, within moments, ironically in hindsight, two wolves vanished among the trees.

**o.O.o**

They managed to find the Dalish only after about a week of searching.

Perhaps it was luck, coincidence or the Maker's will, but it (whichever) was on their side at the moment. Right up to the point when it became obvious that, despite an apparently sincere wish to help (Keeper Zathrian knew about the Blight already, which wouldn't have been as impressive if the elves weren't reclusive and living in the middle of nowhere), there could be no assistance given unless their own werewolf-shaped troubles were resolved by helpful strangers with access to heavy magical firepower and sharp swords.

And people said diplomacy was hard.

Nimue had agreed to try and venture into the forest the following day, as they arrived only about two hours before sunset and venturing into a werewolf-infested forest under the cover of night seemed highly irrational. Alistair actually thought it was rather nice of the Dalish to allow them to stay the night and not make them set up camp too far away from the aravels.

The _nice_ factor degraded fast when he noticed that most of the elves were giving him looks of frosty distrust.

It was a bit relieving that they gave the same glances to Morrigan, which made them good judges of character, but they did so more covertly – the witch had a tendency to glare back. Leliana and Wynne were subjected to this as well, even though some of the elves did open up to them after considerable coaxing. In fact, the only people they reacted relatively warmly to were, predictably, Zevran and Nimue, the former having already gained an apparent unsubtle female following from among the younger elf girls.

The fact that Nimue almost ostensibly turned a blind eye to this was nice too.

She had borrowed one of the smaller chair-like benches from the Dalish and moved it to the shade of one of the pine trees. Apparently, that was also the spot where she would eventually set up her tent, once given enough motivation to do so. Sitting where the light was best, she was apparently intent on decrypting whatever message that new book of hers involved within a day. Surprisingly, seeing Nimue reading with such determination was a generally rare sight; for one thing, books were expensive and heavy; for another, she was usually so tired at the end of the day that focusing her mental energy alone on something would have required a great deal of caffeine.

Of course, what Alistair saw, first and foremost, wasn't the book or the determination, but the way her fingers moved across the pages as if she were blind, almost, and how light reflected off the hair concealing at least half her face from his particular angle.

Peculiarly – just for an instant, though – Alistair wondered if this was how that caged templar in the Circle tower (Collin, was it? Or Clooney? C-something, anyway) had felt for years, just out of reach to make it seem that there was still a chance to break through the glass dome.

Right, now that was creepy. Come to think of it, no wonder that Nimue was so reserved and careful with any hint of romance if her only experience with it was an obsessed templar who had watched her for years. Not that it helped much to make him see a bright side of things.

A small whine alerted him to the fact that Rabbit had decided to join his part of the makeshift campsite. The reason why was obvious; Nimue wouldn't risk a dog slobbering over any book in her vicinity, not even a trained mabari. Maker, the way she handled that book made it seem almost like she was reaching into the Urn of Andraste time and time again to get a single grain of ash out. Did ash have grains anyway? Wouldn't it be too small to be called a grain in comparison to, say, sand? Or even dirt, for that matter?

Rabbit laid his head down at Alistair's feet, growling in what was supposed to be a "Hey, I'm trying to talk to you, look at me, pretty please?" manner. Since the warhound felt no illusions about how by the book the two competitors in their little bet were going to act, he had decided that it was all right for him to give a little support to his chosen candidate as well. It wasn't as if the clown knight (Shale sometimes got the nicknames right, he had to admit) would respond to anything even mildly subtle, meaning that a more decisive tactic was required.

Namely, encouragement. And if Alistair didn't pick up on it, well, maybe Rabbit could get away with some of his food, at the very least.

"Did you know about this?" the de-facto prince blurted out after a few moments of ostensive brooding, mixed with unabashed staring as Rabbit's mistress. Apparently, she had a lot of practice regarding ignoring this kind of thing. "About the proposal, I mean." Alistair clarified. Rabbit correctly assumed that honesty wouldn't be the best policy in this case. Fortunately, the human buried his face in his hands momentarily just when the proper time for a response came, so it wasn't necessary in the end. "Maker, now I can barely even say the word. It just doesn't seem real… I mean, I saw that they got on well. Everyone gets along fine with Nimue."

Which was perhaps a problem in this case. Since Nimue knew that elves and mages weren't necessarily on people's invite-to-our-dinner-party list, getting people to cooperate with her ideas was usually hard. And since she was both in one body, there were two ways she could go about doing things; being extra careful about how she approached difficult situations or making sure that everyone saw the fireballs hovering two inches above her palms before they decided how to respond to her proposals.

Surprisingly, both plans worked on different kinds of people.

The point being that Nimue was usually very likable, assuming she wasn't about to make your head explode. But hey, maybe some people liked that. Never having been on the receiving end of such a sentiment, Alistair couldn't exactly judge.

Breaking this train of thought, the dog wisely pointed out that such an assessment was hardly true for templars and maleficar in general. As Alistair made a point of always saying that he wasn't a templar any longer, there was a relatively high chance that he wouldn't be annoyed or upset by this comment. The only maleficar that Nimue seemed to have very little objection to was Morrigan – and even that was a (could one call it that?) friendship forget through long-term forced exposure to the other. Meaning that there were indeed people whom Nimue didn't like and who didn't care much for Nimue.

Alistair was once again briefly reminded of the Circle of Magi. Certainly the shield of cordiality hadn't made its appearance there and his fellow Warden had spared nothing and no one any punches while there.

"I suppose that could explain a few things. What I don't get is how come she's agreed…" Alistair cut himself short right there. She hadn't, not yet, which was probably one of the very few things holding him above the typical templar clench-jawed misery. First came mourning, then the self-flagellation. There had been stories about that all over the dormitories back in his time. "Well, agreed to consider, anyway. I mean, they haven't known each other for too long and would likely never have met if circumstances were just a little different… I guess it isn't all that different from how we met, actually."

Dejection wasn't necessarily the best thing to hear in this case. Rabbit was forced to rapidly recalculate his position. If he was counting on this human to get his courage together and even think about proposing a mating ritual to his elf, severe encouragement would be required. The warhound would have preferred sincerity, since it was difficult to deceive a third person when your supposed partner in crime didn't know what was going to happen – or that three roast beef dinners were on the line. In which case, the mabari was resolved to employ as much truth as possible before lapsing into the realm of fiction.

Hence, the first thing Rabbit noted was the most obvious truth; that the hound noble was older than his mistress, which could be potentially detrimental to a successful match. Well, he didn't mention the _potentially_ part, but maintained the _could_. It was usual to seek a mate of one's own age, for the most part, as far as humans and elves were apparently concerned. And one's own race, usually, but _that_ wasn't the crucial point to make in this case.

The sound Alistair made could have potentially been a sign, save for the hint of a childish pout in his expression. Well, more than a hint, if one was to be honest. "I suppose, but with the taint, she isn't likely to care too much about age gaps… do you think that was why she agreed?" Now this realization seemed to be more frightening to him. The dog would have liked to point out that Nimue hadn't explicitly agreed on anything, but this wasn't something fitting for the moment. "That she wants someone who knows the world and the limits of what he can offer her…?"

Well, the time for honesty and subtlety both had certainly passed by now.

The things he was doing for his mistress… hopefully, she would recognize his valiant efforts to make her the alpha female amongst humans and reward him with that nice ear-scratching only she seemed to ever get right. And some roast beef for dinner, of course. Couldn't not have that, could he now?

Waggling his tail just a bit, the mabari presented a counter-argument. Perhaps Nimue had feelings for the clown knight, but remained too shy to mention them on account on not wishing to ruin their long-standing friendship? They had known each other for quite a while now, after all, and their situation was highly complicated without mating being thrown into the mix…

Alistair perked up just a little, but didn't know whether or not to trust this entirely. While he hadn't yet given credit to Morrigan for pointing out that the warhound had a manipulative side – when there was a possibility of siding against the marsh witch in an argument, Alistair usually took it – he wasn't certain if a dog was the most obvious choice of a confidante for Nimue. Admittedly, it seemed unlikely that she would confide in Leliana, considering the way the bard kept chasing her around with a dress, Morrigan wouldn't tell him anything and the elven mage had more sense than talk marriage with someone who openly scorned feelings of any kind and, in his own way, Zevran had appeared just as surprised as he himself had been upon hearing of this new and sudden development.

Which left Wynne and the mabari, really. And with the evil jests at his expense that Wynne was so prone to making, bizarrely, Alistair was more ready to trust the dog on this account.

"You think so?" More inclined didn't necessarily mean that he fully trusted this canine instinct-supposition-whatever, but it did perk him up a little. After all, dogs could smell emotions through those pheromone-whatsits or something. The kennel master at Ostagar had mentioned as much. So there had to be a bit of truth in the speech, which was good. "Well, she did seem to like the rose… after deciding it wasn't a potion ingredient, anyway."

That had been the worst moment of awkwardness in his life, beating even the day he had splattered a mouse with a frying pan while on dishwashing duty as punishment in the Chantry. Compared to the innocent puzzled surprise Nimue had displayed, the face the revered Mother had made back then was nothing. Even if that look would have sent the archdemon itself cowering in fear.

Rabbit, knowing an opening when he saw one, took the time to point out that his elf still had the rose. Why she would bother keeping useless plant matter with her was beyond the dog's comprehension, but it had been a gift, apparently, so perhaps that could build up Alistair's self-esteem a little bit when it came to the whole mating thing.

The ex-templar did perk up noticeably. The older mage was right; it was indeed rather like dealing with a small puppy. Easily excitable, the lot of them. "Really? Well, you would know, with how often you try and sneak off with her potion ingredients." At the very least, it was a passable justification.

The dog took offense to that last one, though. Rising up, he made a move as if to walk away. After all, if the clown knight didn't _want_ his help…

Fortunately, humans were very easy to predict, meaning that the pork chop bit used as a lure to make him stay was utterly expected by the mabari. Not that it wasn't welcome, mind you. It just went to show that the heir apparent might potentially be the right male for his elf, as he gave good treats when so inclined. Of course, the other one gave treats whenever they passed each other, so…

But it was a matter of standards and principles, of course.

"No, no, I want help." Alistair said, entirely too quickly. The pork chop bribe worked, as most food-related things did with the mabari. Luckily, he was mostly out of his big-eater stage or Grey Warden development. Otherwise, this would be an entirely too high cost for romance advice from a four-legged canine. "Maker knows I need it. Maybe you could, eh, talk to her? Or however it is you make her understand everything you say." Alistair shook his head, partly due to wondering what the world was getting to if this wasn't some peculiar cheese-induced dream. "I swear it's some sort of magic at times."

The dog huffed a little, only mildly offended. He could still withdraw from the betting poll or put his bet on someone else, assuming Oghren was drunk enough when the decision would be announced…

"Aw, come on, you know I don't mean it that way." This method of quick apologizing coupled with uninterrupted whining would have to be remedied somewhat. "I just feel helpless about the whole thing. It feels like it's already been settled; like I don't really know Nimue."

The dog gave him an all-too-meaningful glance. Like when you didn't tell her about being heir to the throne? That was a low blow, but a true one, so it kind of evened things out.

Alistair gave up. "All right, all right. Not all of us are as cunningly manipulative as you."

Something the mabari was rightly proud of. Now, if only theirs was a world where chess skills could outweigh the unrivalled power of human stupidity, perhaps he even stood a chance at winning those dinners, if only for the sake of professional pride. His elf deserved something for all her trouble, after all. And somehow, the warhound didn't really think a few nice scratches behind the ears would quite cover it.


	11. Temptations of Ever After

The update is here… and it's early! Woo-hoo!

The headlock isn't over, but the chapter just wouldn't let me go – hence the Zevran focus chapter is here, at long last. The poll is still open, ladies and gents, so feel free to contribute via reviews and votes, if the fancy strikes you! Thus far, Teagan is in the lead (applause) but things could still theoretically change.

Or I might end up vetoing things and writing the fic the way I see it. Anything goes. But I don't have a completely clear vision yet, so never fear – and decisive arguments will persuade at least part of me. So yeah, reviews, please!

**o.O.o**

**Temptations of Ever After**

**o.O.o**

Just like the other places where they had made this little Grey Warden house call, the general reaction to their arrival was the same – uncertain respect to Nimue (and Alistair, once his Warden-hood was announced), hesitant courtesy to those that came with smiles and mild suspicion to those that defied the usual preconceptions and made no move to hide it.

Among the Dalish, their leader's hope that her elven nature would help seemed to have been fulfilled. Keeper Zathrian (who seemed otherwise a haughty, almost arrogant man) had spoken to her with genuine regret about the state of his warriors and his apprentice had provided the Warden with much necessary information. Zevran also had the suspicion that, were it not obvious that an elf was leading a group so diverse, they wouldn't have been allowed to stay close for the night.

Some of the elves certainly seemed to regret it upon seeing what the likes of Oghren could be up to, but there remained three things that warranted general fascination from the tribe. The most obvious was the tiny pony their two pet dwarves used to haul their cart of supplies and merchandise around. Even the halla seemed interested in this strange but docile intruder and even the general differences between elves and dwarves seemed to be overcome in the face of seeing something so unusual to them.

The second – less obvious, perhaps, due to the common nature of such fascination – was Nimue herself. As it was widely known by then that the mage was downright useless at setting up tents and the like, she had focused only on making nice with the still-frowning Dalish. Afterwards, she had simply sat down between a larger tree and one of the aravel, leaning against the latter, and taken out that book the child from Redcliffe had given her. Whatever it contained seemed to interest her greatly, because she never raised her head once, no matter how many stares she drew.

Zevran was somewhat curious what that book contained that managed to divert her attention even from the many trees around them; she still held a fascination with the open forest. However, being the last of the trio of apparently fascinating new arrivals, he was also the most observant towards this recent trend. After all, they didn't seem to be going anywhere too soon, their leader wouldn't appreciate an interruption out of sheer boredom and a few among the unsubtly gawking girls weren't unfortunate-looking, even if compared against his current standard for attractiveness.

The assassin hadn't gotten to where he was without being able to… compromise. Especially since the only recipient of intense looks from their leader was that tattered book. Like the blood mage who had so easily discarded her and fled once backed into a corner, it couldn't appreciate the rarity of the sentiment.

But, as the saying went, as long as one didn't lost sight of the ultimate goal, a little sidetracking was entirely permissible, no?

Out of the various options presented to him, not a one seemed anything close to Nimue in appearance; the Dalish were mostly dark-haired, their skin just a little suntanned and much more athletic than their mage-leader even after months upon months of exercise. Not that he was _looking_ for similarities, certainly, but the petite redhead he approached the shade of skin closest to the mage, if nothing else in common with her.

"Such a sad look on such a pretty young face is a misfortune indeed." The first warning flag that he was getting too soft or too attached to a particular woman rose when the surprised stutter of the girl as he sat down next to her did practically nothing for him.

"O-oh, thank you." After weeks upon weeks of witty if cutting quips, it was somewhat of a let-down. Still, crows were scavengers, as Sten had once said, and were able to settle for less than the desired standard. "Anderan atishan – it is rare for us to receive this amount of visitors."

"Ah yes, I imagine you don't have to establish new relations so abruptly." That was the one downside of living in a close-knit group such as the Dalish; they lacked the degree of variety and surprise desirable when picking a lover. Which is to say, this might end up requiring only half his usual effort, especially given the rather homely appearance of most males this girl's age he had managed to spot. "Travel brings such wonders, wouldn't you say?"

Within a few sentences, Zevran had the girl practically summarized; her name was Gheyna, she was unattached (but the uneasy firmness she said that with suggested some entanglements on that part) and only mildly mistrustful. Her eagerness was subdued by her relative humility, but she was very easily impressed by what she didn't recognize as familiar. All quite appealing factors to his purpose.

"We get new arrivals at times, but never shemlen that don't intend to drive us out… certainly never Grey Wardens and a company of warriors."

"You have fierce warriors of your own… and much more for anyone to find fascinating."

"That's very kind of you to say." It was, however, no true challenge when the target only made half-hearted attempts at escaping. It was as the old wives' saying went; forbidden fruit tasted the sweetest… even when unbitten, the anticipation was something to be savored. This pretty child's blushes were predictable and boring. "I don't really think there's much remarkable here to someone like you."

"Treasures can be found in the most unexpected of places." Nimue was still reading, pleasantly ignoring everything, even the despairing glances Alistair was exchanging with their warhound. How he had come to the conclusion that this was a suitable confidante, Zevran didn't know, but the sight almost broke his façade of polite concern in favor of a laugh. "So tell me, Gheyna dear, what ails you. Your sorrow causes pain to the hearts of many, without any doubt."

The girl didn't notice that his attention was diverted a bit; evidently, she wasn't one to receive any male attention often. Or perhaps she had been particularly mistreated in that area. "I wouldn't know about that…"

Perhaps he was just used to the high degree of effort one had to put into wooing Nimue to get her to even notice what was going on, but Zevran opted for a less dazzling smile than usual. He could make up for the lack of effort later on, but it had been much too long since he had had the chance to dull the sting their mage-leader's persistent rejections wrought to his pride. The best remedy for such ills – as for all, according to the assassin's creed – was to lose himself in the flesh of another.

"Come now, a beautiful young woman such as yourself, so fiery and yet gentle…" Yes, this one was far less experienced in the area of parrying empty flattery than Nimue; to the degree that she didn't even pause to frown at the obvious contradiction, or give any indication that he had no way of knowing her after a mere few words. "I should think ill of the taste of your companions if you didn't have compliments lavished upon yourself daily."

"Is that how things are in the shemlen cities?" Surprise, interest and a trace of intent. For now, she focused on the first two, imagining such odd proceedings. "It seems strange to me… but here, everyone knows everyone."

"That is no excuse for anyone to disregard your loveliness. Such ignorance, for shame. But perhaps this is actually a stroke of good fortune for you." At least she didn't have a mentally unstable templar self-flagellating himself every day after dinner for the entirely natural occurrence of worshipping the ground she walked on… and then turning completely unhinged due to unpredictable circumstances.

Life was ironic like that at times.

Gheyna, knowing nothing of this, was quite naturally a bit confused and blinked. "Good fortune?" She frowned. "What do you mean?"

"Your beauty being so great, how can they not be nervous in approaching you?" A beautiful woman was to be praised for her intelligence; an intelligent one for her beauty. With a comely girl, it was easy to make the choice, but with their Warden, neither path seemed particularly fruitful. "It gives you the power to make your own decisions, to not settle for the…" A proper assassin always knew when someone had spotted them, so Zevran quite easily noticed a young elf watching them with the kind of disdain that screamed out details without the need for explanation. "Ordinary."

"Sometimes, one can find stability in the ordinary." That was surprisingly deep for a naïve young woman such as her, but also a decidedly weak argument. Especially when she couldn't help but tremble a little when practiced fingers slithered across her exposed hand.

"Perhaps, but when a wonder stands before you, isn't it worth any risk to reach out and take the smallest bit of it for yourself?"

Gheyna missed the moment when the assassin had successfully pinpointed her lovelorn suitor out of the crowd and managed to analyze the situation and find out how it might benefit him within a matter of seconds. She missed Cammen's utter despair and lack of action when her personal space was very decisively invaded (which she also missed, rising heat somewhere under her skin aside). What she didn't miss, entirely by accident, was the moment when a question from Wynne forced Nimue to raise her head from the page she was reading. For a total of three seconds, the mage-Warden looked directly at the two of them, blinked slowly, as if she couldn't process the information properly without slowing down her thoughts… and then, like the crack of a whip, her cold eyes darted upwards, back to the woman with whom she was briefly conversing.

Being young and still just a little wary of these outsiders, Gheyna interpreted that according to what she herself might feel in such a situation. It was an easy assumption, especially as the idea that an elf might love a human had not yet occurred to her, nor did any Dalish truly consider that possibility. The differences were just too obvious. Gheyna's face fell, but not as abruptly as one might expect. Somehow, she was just the slightest bit relieved.

Hesitantly, she drew back, this being the only move on her part that managed to surprise Zevran. "Ah, I think I understand. You are bonded with the Grey Warden, aren't you?" That was familiar territory; something that made sense to her, even for these outsiders.

_Bonded_ as in… oh, so this was what it was like. No wonder these Dalish were so prudish. "Not in the way you understand it, I would assume." It was worth one further attempt. They could even include that wide-eyed virgin boy of hers, if that eased her mind – but if this really equaled marriage in her eyes, the consequences could be… problematic.

"Then you are courting her." Gheyna jumped to the next assumption with a simplicity worthy of a child. Obviously, in the girl's mind, there were only two alternatives: marriage (in the sense that she understood it) or soon-to-be-marriage. Perhaps it was better not to take these little entanglements too far. If he was ever to travel with a Dalish tribe, Zevran knew there had to be a better way of going along with that than hanging this kind of chain around his neck.

"Let us say that I am very interested in her, shall we?" In Gheyna's mind, that likely amounted to the same thing, and if the Dalish were truly this puritan about simple sex, it was best not to go all the way. That, however, didn't mean that further compromises couldn't be attempted. "But you are also most interesting, my dear. It is very hard to believe that you don't have men vying for your attention at this very instant."

The Dalish girl's face went as dark as her hair. "Well, there is Cammen, but… that's beside the point, really." she waved her hand dismissively. Used to the clumsy stumbling of a besotted boy, she had absolutely no idea how to handle the pleasant nothings that were being lavished upon her. "So things work differently outside the clan? Figures. We get told just what the flat-ears mention of Alienages. But you're both from other places."

"I'm certain if people knew how hospitable and appealing the Dalish truthfully are, they would swarm your encampment in a hurry."

"I don't know if the Keeper would like that." Gheyna was practically rooted to the spot, aware of her own rambling. But she was acutely aware of her own limits; competing with a Grey Warden in any field would be folly. The uneasy fluttering near her heart remained, but it wasn't nearly so stroke-inducing anymore. "We try to travel light and without fuss. It's nowhere near as exciting as travelling with Grey Wardens… we just make do."

That right there was an opening for the final attempt. With practiced seamless ease, Zevran took it by resuming the non-threatening gesture of stroking the girl's hand. "That depends entirely on the kind of excitement you crave, my dear." If a simple suggestion (though purred as it was) could drive the girl to distraction, the entire pleasure of the challenge was gone.

"With the werewolves assaulting us, I'm not sure I could handle much more at the moment." And she was once more babbling a little, trying to steer the conversation away from something she feared. With an inner sigh, Zevran retreated, if only for the moment. Probably for the best, this course of action. Marriage was far, _far_ from his mind, especially the accidental variety. "Though travelling again would be a nice change."

"I'm certain our lovely Warden will make it her utmost priority." Moreover, Gheyna must have come to her conclusion based on some action on Nimue's part – a brief venomous glance, maybe? – and maybe it wouldn't hurt to poke the dying fire with a stick, just to get it up and running again. "Perhaps it would be good to go make certain of that."

"You don't have to do that, really." Gheyna mumbled, cursing her own lack of aggression. She cared for Cammen, truly, but there was something frightening about this man that drew her in very easily – and she suspected that would be true for many others.

With unabashed grace, Zevran was already back on his feet, finishing this simple pretext to temporarily abandon the girl. A shame, though. She had been relatively promising, at least in comparison to the others around them. "I insist. It wouldn't do to make promises one cannot keep, would it now?"

"I-I suppose not."

"Quite right of you." the assassin's smile was a little too wide, the skilled puppeteer patronizing just a little. A few small pushes would be enough to win this one over, if he felt so inclined in the future. For the time being, an investigation was in order, which should turn out to be far more amusing that this little exchange. "Now, if you'd be so good as to excuse me and convey my apologies to your charming friends, duty calls once more."

There were other women watching them, some a little green with jealousy around the eyes, some trying their best to pretend they weren't the least bit interested in the one other elf in the outsider's group. None of the other companions seemed to have much inclination to strike up a conversation with the Dalish, save for Leliana, who was still speaking with the storyteller. Other than that, most were setting up the tents on a small clearing not too far away.

As for Nimue, she was alone once again, only this time a small glowing wisp was floating around her head, illuminating the pages for her as she poured through the words. One of Wynne's spells, probably, since the elf's magic had a tendency to have more extreme effects than a simple light.

Zevran's entire form gained a new kind of focus upon approaching the mage, as if he were preparing himself for a battle. Indeed, that was what most of their conversations were; battles, or friendly sparring matches, at the very least. Yet now, there were stakes to be met and a time limit as well.

Lady Nimue of Rainesfere. Arlessa (now that would be a true fight with the Chantry, the title) of Redcliffe. Laughable images, with the way she had fought the pomp Leliana had attempted to impose upon her tooth and nail. But so be it, if she wished. It was friendly concern that urged him to present the mage with options before that happened, as well as the undeniable lust. An injury of pride was only a secondary factor.

After all, what one wanted didn't need to have anything to do with what one deserved.

"Surrendering your privacy so quickly?" Zevran tsked at this sudden change of opinion regarding having a study room at her disposal. You couldn't take the Tower out of the mage most days, but now… "You must indeed find the Dalish intriguing."

Nimue looked up from her book only for a second as a courteous greeting, then returned to her decrypting without missing a beat. She had gotten so used to these sudden appearances courtesy of the rogues she travelled with that it seemed like nothing so extraordinary any longer.

"It's safer this way and we've been allowed to stay. I don't see any reason to make two journeys instead of one. Besides," Again, a brief glance ending almost as soon as it began. "I thought you'd enjoy it."

She was doing an exceedingly good job of hiding any trace of disapproval – or was it jealousy, perhaps, a more impish side of Zevran considered with carefully-concealed amusement – but there wasn't trace of the usual candor behind the well-wishing.

It was encouraging, whatever it was, and Maker knew that much less had encouraged the assassin to approach the boundaries of someone's personal space. "That wouldn't be too much of a problem, but it turns out that there is one detrimental factor to that – you, my dear."

"I meant because your mother lived like this." Answering questions systematically tended to leave one not realizing what the full argument they were arguing against actually was. "Wait… why am I detrimental to your…" There was that grin she had trained herself to (partially) resist, which said more than words. "I don't think I even want to know."

"A most peculiar story…" Telling it seemed to require sitting down at a slight distance from the mage. Nimue didn't bother moving away – for one thing, it would have a detrimental effect; for another, lightning spells wouldn't injure the caster even at close quarters. "Apparently, the young elf lasses have assumed that you and I are… well…" When Zevran edged away for an opportunity at innuendo, it was no doubt worthy of at least a brief glance. Not the best idea, at this proximity – hindsight was evil. "It would be better if I demonstrated, perhaps." Zevran suggested with an unwavering smile. One more step was all it would take.

The train of thought going a little slower than usual, Nimue didn't place too much importance on the varying degrees of proximity between them. At least, not until she finished this very peculiar assumption and managed to wrap her mind around it.

"They think-" She stopped right there, her face especially pink around the cheeks. Now that explained a lot. But then, she remembered whom she was speaking to, shook her head abruptly and returned to denying the inevitable. "No, you're just messing with me now."

"I speak in all seriousness." That actually got her to lower that book, which was an accomplishment in itself. Zevran caught a glimpse of what seemed almost hieroglyphic writing and absent-mindedly concluded that it had to be some form of runes or an older system of coding the contents. Outwardly, it caught only a minimum of his attention, but if someone were to show him the writing again, he likely would have remembered some of it. "They came to this conclusion all on their own. Doesn't that say something to you?"

"That I understand now why they seem so dejected." In turning her head to have a look at the nearest cluster of elf girls that – it now became apparent – was at least partly focused on watching them, she unknowingly almost awarded Zevran with a face-full of hair. The assassin easily pulled back just for a moment, but then drank in the vaguely clinical scent of herbs that clung to her at all times. It was possibly the closest he had ever gotten to her in the physical sense, which meant that extreme care would be required to fight for establishing this frontier upon reaching it. "I'm surprised you didn't counter the idea, however."

"Oh, I would have, perhaps, but it seems that to them, the act of love would signify marriage." The mage's entire form jerked slightly, though the motive for that movement was difficult to discern. "The last thing we need now is a thong of self-proclaimed brides following us around." Zevran continued as if nothing had happened, taking careful note of how rigidly their lovely leader sat in attention and how she was evaluating the situation with less than her usual forced patience. "Though that would certainly be one way of making them honor their treaty."

"And a most certain way of antagonizing the male half of the tribe." Nimue almost banged her head against the aravel when edging back reflexively. Feeling foreign warm breath inches from one's lips was certainly one way of becoming alert of her own sloppiness in the attention department. There was one thing that concerned her; or would, once she dealt with the lapse in her calm – a calm that was more fragile than she liked to admit. She couldn't tell if this was merely a show to deter the persistent girls, or if this was a display for her own benefit. Either way, it meant trouble.

As with all hunters, fear (even a momentary show of it), seemed to excite Zevran. The appreciated difference was that, upon seeing it, he didn't press that advantage and gave a little ground. Not nearly enough, of course; just enough to reestablish a false sense of security. "Not necessarily."

_Well, that was one way of dealing with things, _an absent-mindedly dazed voice in Nimue's head concluded complacently. But the brief but severe intrusion of her personal space warranted some compensation, the mage hoped, and she intended to get it in the mildest manner possible.

"Can I ask you not to cause trouble?" Of course she _could_ ask, but somehow, she supposed a higher caliber of persuasion would be necessary for this particular situation. Hence, Nimue brought out her best weapon against objections of more gullible party members (read: Alistair) and attempted to impersonate a puppy to her utmost ability. "Please?"

It was just a little comical to observe, especially with the faintest tinge of desperation tied to the gesture. But the way the mage's lips puckered just a little was certainly a temptation, if not at all in the sense she intended. It was an argument nonetheless.

"I'm certain I could be persuaded by your legendary charm." Zevran drawled, edging just a little closer. It was always something to be wary of when someone looked at you as if they wanted to have you for dinner and potentially afterwards as well.

And here they went again, both of them concluded at the same time.

"You've done much crazier things while following me." Fighting a high dragon on foot counted as crazier than resisting a bunch of elf girls with no weapons in Nimue's book – but then again, she was female and didn't swing that way as far as she was aware, so what did she know? "Surely this wouldn't be too difficult for you to accomplish."

"Now, that is very relative." Zevran was entirely glad to explain the difference between these predicaments to her. Even if she might not want to hear it. "Usually, your requests don't require restraining myself on any account." The tragedy of the current situation didn't escape him, so he threw in a sigh that was practically tap-dancing on the line between melodramatics and really obvious emphasis. "It is heartbreaking to give up so many beauties, but trading a few stars for the sun is a bargain entirely in my favor."

If there was anything her tenure as a Grey Warden had taught Nimue, it was when someone was trying to bargain. Especially when one side of the trade wasn't anywhere near equal to the other. "I'm not setting this up for negotiation. I'm only warning you that if you upset any of them, you're entirely on your own."

"Setting ultimatums, are we? Saucy. I suppose being under one yourself makes it tempting to spread them around."

This was a twist Nimue hadn't been expecting… at least, not this soon. "I'd hardly call it that. It's an offer of marriage. I asked for time to consider and I've been given it. That's all there is to it."

"He's an exceptionally good-looking man, that Teagan." There was also the fact that – differences and conflicts aside – he would be able to give Nimue the kind of life she deserved. Not the kind she wanted, but still, there were compromises. "And he certainly doesn't waste any time when he wants something." Unlike a certain heir apparent, who seemed to consider a mabari warhound the best possible counselor in matters of romance. And Wynne wondered why he tried to present the poor mage with alternatives. "I imagine the family meetings will be awkward, though."

"Why would anything be awkward?"

Zevran was sorely tempted to ask if she wanted that in alphabetical order or according to the degree of awkwardness associated.

"Oh, that depends entirely on the environment." Best not to go into such things while there was yet joy to be found in the world. "And if I can't manage to spoil you for another's touch before you make any kind of decision. Or perhaps you've made one already."

In cases such as this when controlling the flow of one's blood to their face was impossible and dodging the issue wouldn't yield much result, frankness was the best solution. At least, so Nimue supposed. Running off that last time had been a very stupid impulse. "What do you want from me?"

"Only what you'll give me willingly." That was the single rule Zevran abided by in these games; one that he had never had a cause to break yet. The hunt, after all, was intriguing… and perhaps that was the reason why he longed for their mage Warden to this extent. It was turning out to be a very merry chase, so far. "Have I ever asked anything more from you?"

"No… no you haven't." Nimue conceded, a bit grudgingly. She hated giving ground. But then, disregarding this childishness for a moment, she embraced whatever snatch of humility she possessed and repeated her request. "Will you do this for me, please?"

"When you smile like that, how could I refuse?" The truth was, she hadn't been smiling during the rather solemn statement, but this blithe acceptance cracked that façade. Of course, that meant that she missed the fact that this wasn't in any way a promise, word for word; Leliana would have cautioned her against this, but the bard was far too busy trying to pry out stories from the local lore keeper to notice.

"Thank you." It was this sincerity, though, that lingered in the assassin's mind in the coming hours. This was the one factor which bothered him about the chase; how personally it was pulling him in. "And… if it makes it easier, you don't have to correct them. It should be too difficult a charade to maintain." It had cost Nimue some ground, this suggestion, but she felt that she owed it as a peacekeeping gesture.

Zevran wasn't nearly distracted enough to disregard the obvious opening and allowed his grin to return full-force.

"Now that is an intriguing proposal." Even a proposition, perhaps, if one considered Nimue's general flirting standards. Which were neigh nonexistent, but that was beside the point. The hair falling into her face caused the assassin's fingers to twitch; it was a testament of his self-restraint that he didn't act on this impulse. For now, it would be looking, not touching. After all, it was much more gratifying when your target ran to you, proving to be not so different from the others. Or, more importantly, proving that they, too, had urges and feelings. "Does it include kisses and nights spent together in a single tent?"

"As you've made it clear that they're rather conservative here about that kind of thing, no." Had Nimue not known that much, weaseling her way out of this situation would have been much more difficult, even when hungry eyes had shifted their aim from maintaining eye contact to examining her lips.

_Especially _in such cases.

And the assassin laughed, at this squeamishness, at her opportunism, at the quick defense move so masterfully formed, finally giving ground himself, perhaps admitting a loss of this battle. "Making me sleep on the metaphorical couch? What a cruel wife you make, my dear." The word felt odd, as if it were to warp something, twist it irrepairably - and, judging by Nimue's fidgeting, she felt the same. "I almost pity your noble suitor."

But not the war; never the war, if that answer could be taken from the caress of the hand that finally traced her cheek as if to say _this and much more is what you are missing_. The briefness of that contact said much more than saying anything at all.


	12. Healing Ever After

As uni is sending me to hell in a handbasket for the next few weeks, this is a treat for all the fans; some Alistair, some Zevran and loads of complications! I think we´re at about the halfway point of this story right now, so it shouldn't turn out to be more than thirty chapters. Maybe about twenty-five, who knows?

This chapter is a little shorter than I intended, but stretching it out would have lessened the impact of it, I think. I might make up for it with the next one – this is a bit of filler, kind of, but it will have impact eventually.

In any case, I thought it might be nice to crack Nimue a little; she comes off as a bit cold with people, but I think it's mostly the wariness to open up based on the long life in the Tower. It sort of goes like this: she cares for Alistair but is at odds with many of his opinions (the last thing she wants is another Cullen incident) and likes Zevran more than she admits, but doesn't want to be abandoned in any way again (Jowan buggering off hit her _hard_). As for Teagan – well, she let him kiss her. Considering her "frigid virgin act", to paraphrase Oghren, I'd say she likes him a lot.

All romance material, though where it goes is yet to be seen. Who knows? The poll is still open!

**o.O.o**

**Healing Ever After**

**o.O.o**

"Perhaps you should rethink this plan of yours, Leliana."

Wynne knew the suggestion wouldn't fall on fertile ground before she even mentioned it. They were in the process of setting up the tents for the evening, practically in the middle of the Dalish camp. Nimue had agreed that they would leave in the morning, since even the shapeshifted forms of her and Morrigan wouldn't be able to find their way properly through the forest without any light source. Especially if they were to also look for an elf who knew the forest far better than they did.

Aneirin. Alive. If it was truly him, Wynne had no idea what to do. She wanted to rush into the forest now, partly, but also didn't know what to do if she even managed to find him. What to say or do to someone whom she had failed in such a spectacular manner? Besides, there was an intermediary available, with the most ideal combination of both magic and elven blood, who had initiated this unlikely reunion. At the very least, Wynne hoped to see it through with their leader.

But, for the moment, the mage had other concerns. She and Leliana were setting up their combined tents – an odd thing to do, even after months of camping out in the wilderness – when the younger woman mentioned how different this was from Redcliffe. And Nimue was different as well. In fact, Wynne rather thought she had never seen the elf so… relaxed.

They both knew what plan was in question, though; the bard stopped moving only for a little while, pursing her lips just a little.

"It is better to have Nimue decide early on and not leave anyone hanging." Of course, there was just the slightest assurance behind this that the only possible solution was the one she was presenting.

"But you still intend to persuade her to marry Bann Teagan."

"Well, yes." It wasn't a question and Leliana knew it, but answered nonetheless. "I doubt anyone will be too rewarding towards her once all this is over, and I can imagine no one who deserves a life of privilege more than Nimue."

If Leliana wanted to award all those who had suffered with a good life, she would have work cut out for her for more than six lifetimes. Especially if those people were like Nimue – never having had the chance to choose, they had no idea what they actually wanted.

"I just think that it isn't as straightforward as you would like it to be." Matters of the heart never were, even when there weren't so many players involved. "Nimue is a Grey Warden first, but also a mage."

"Bann Teagan said he doesn't care." This was probably a phrase she would have to repeat many, many times over the coming weeks, Leliana presumed. Nimue had a good memory, but a selective one; she would begin to doubt herself. It wouldn't be so easy if the bard had something to say about it.

But Wynne had other concerns, ones less related to the choice than to the consequences. "I doubt the Chantry will be so benevolent." She could imagine it now, the protests, the carefully worded slander – that a weapon, not needed right now, ought to be returned to its sheath, the Tower. "But what I mean is that she could be invaluable to many causes after this Blight is over."

"You know better than I that she will never return to the Tower." Leliana spoke softly, truthfully, also aware of this trend. Nimue made no secret of her dislike of the prison she had been confided to, even though it might have been a step up from the Alienage. To put her back there – or attempt to – would be in very poor taste and judgment. "If not because of what happened there, then she will have other reasons."

The elderly mage remembered those moments vividly, having been there herself. Contrary to general opinion, she wasn't as familiar with Nimue´s past as she would like, but the trip through the tower had given her some understanding on why the elf was so guarded against anyone trying to get closer to her. It also partly explained her continued resentment of the Chantry in any shape and form.

"I think the present should be taken into account as well." Wynne´s eyes found her target just as she handed another part of the fabric to the bard. Their other Warden seemed unnaturally silent and was apparently talking to the dog, of all people and things. That was hardly a picture of mental soundness. "Alistair is a good lad. I hate to see him like this… but it is necessary, and that, at least, Nimue seems to understand."

Under any other circumstances – _any_, even if only just one of them was the slightest bit different in their station or worldview – Wynne would have easily gone out of her way to help the poor boy communicate his feelings to the elf. He deserved that much, if only to make up for the subsequent teasing. But they were what they were; incompatible, at least socially.

Never mind the whole royalty business that complicated things, even Alistair himself was acutely aware how the mage constantly tensed in the proximity of templars, or those with a mindset determined to view magic as a volatile substance to be observed with hostility. It had lessened to the point of being imperceptible towards the heir apparent, but there were moments when it briefly returned.

Spotting movement near their leader, Wynne identified the intrusion with a crease gracing her brow. "_Him_, on the other hand..." she trailed off, as if to say that even discussing this was pointless.

This wasn't because she didn't think much of Zevran, but because the assassin frustrated her in quite a few ways, Leliana understood. The "magic bosom" comments had been relatively amusing the first few times, but she knew that it could easily grate on the nerves if the intention behind them – to imbalance, nothing more – wasn't entirely apparent. The bard carefully unpacked some of the bread they still had left from Redcliffe and idly wondered what they could do with it for the evening as she spoke.

"I have things under control; you need not worry."

Leliana was only a little worried by Zevran; she understood his game quite clearly most of the time, but this fixation on Nimue was a bit surprising. Yes, the elf flirted with everyone; yes, everyone in their little group usually responded in the same manner as Nimue did – that is, a refusal with varying degrees of embarrassment or anger. But while she could freely admit that their mage-leader was intriguing – and Leliana would have taken the chance to be with the woman herself, had she been given any indication of anything more than wary acceptance and possibly friendship – it was peculiar.

Still, there was a plan in the making and Leliana was reasonably confident that it would all work out in the end. The Maker was on their side now and He had brought her to their group; it just seemed natural that He would offer guidance even in the matter of making sure that His earthly champion received the acclaim she deserved. And if Leliana was to be the vessel, the agent for this, then so be it. She could think of no worthier task.

"There is always reason to worry." Wynne managed to say just before Nimue darted past them – this time, not to escape Zevran, but to avert a potential incident involving Shale and several halla.

**o.O.o**

Rabbit was just about to give up on the whole encouragement routine when the boy showed up.

The clown knight was in the middle of his usual running commentary of events, stopping only briefly when Nimue brushed past them without sparing them even a single glance. After almost an hour of no success at all, the warhound rather thought that whatever his mistress considered worthy of her time had to be more entertaining than this pointless tirade.

The boy didn't seem to be much older than his mistress and the clown knight; in fact, if Rabbit had to hazard a guess, he would probably say that he was a few years younger. That explained the wide-eyed timidity that most pups displayed when approaching someone they believed wiser due to a slightly greater age. Whether this was the case, Rabbit couldn't say, but it was entertaining to watch at times.

"The hound doesn't seem to be responding to you."

Alistair blinked, startled out of his reverie. He had been contemplating the distinctly upsetting sight of who had snuck his way back to their Warden-leader and then Nimue had gone past them… well, it wasn't good for productive thinking, in short. But he seriously hadn't expected one of the Dalish to just walk up to him and start talking. Most of them were doing a damned good job of pretending he didn't exist; and, if he did, was less important than many of the forest critters around them.

"Huh?" Once more, he was the peak of intelligence, the snide Morrigan-ish voice in his head commented. After so long, Alistair had learned to tune it out. "Oh, it takes a while to get use to it, but he's actually very eloquent when he sets his mind to it. Always has advice on any topic and never gets smarmy. Well," The templar shrugged; he couldn't cut the hound so much slack. "Most of the time."

Rabbit personally took a little offense to that, but reproached the clown knight only mildly.

"See? I'll have to remember that, in case it might come in useful later on." The babbling was a side-effect of not really knowing what to say to a Dalish; Alistair's experiences with elves were rather limited, due to his Chantry-centric past, and the last thing they needed now was for someone to destroy the fragile alliances.

Fortunately, the elf seemed far more timid and uncertain than him, which was always a perk in these situations. It was apparently only disbelieving fascination that had allowed him to even come closer and ask about this.

"You humans are strange."

"What? No, no, no, no, my friend, we happen to be entirely too simple." The comment stopped the boy from walking away, which had obviously been his intention. But Alistair sort of wished for any kind of intelligible _wordy_ response to his conversation by then and found this upsetting statement quite… upsetting. Redundancy was convenient in anger. "It's you elves who give _us_ headaches. Especially the mages. I mean, the fashion sense is a bit of a tip-off that something has to be wrong with them, but that's just the start of things."

"Mages?" While the Keeper had magic of his own, there weren't many other arcane users in the tribe; let alone trained ones. And Cammen rather doubted that Zathrian had said more than two words to any of the humans, preferring to confer with his own kind. As all of them did. "You mean the Warden?"

"She doesn't have a twin sister, as far as I know." Any possibility of a jest was lost on the elf, which wasn't entirely a good sign. Alistair didn't care much, though, as the thought began to expand in his mind. "That would be weird, having one as my… aunt…" That word left a really sour taste in his mouth, more than swallowing a ripe lemon at once would have. "Though perhaps it would be good as well."

Of course, unless it were triplets, there would always be the uncomfortable aspect of Zevran to consider… all right, this train of thought was getting out of hand. Best to derail it at once, before the wheels in his mind began working far too fast and caused his head to explode. Not that those Tevinter robes they had found hadn't done that already.

"You're courting the Warden and she's refused you, then?" Hearing this spoken in something akin to a hopeful tone was Not Nice.

At All.

Of course, a quick wound would have been able to heal, instead of this dissection thingy they were performing now.

"Oh, no, refusal would be much more straightforward, like a dagger in the back." Or a dagger in the heart? Backstabbing could hardly be straightforward, but that was beside the point. "This is more like someone prodding in that wound with a dull spoon." These morbid images he was projecting were clearly a sign of unrest. "She never gives me a straight answer… but I guess I haven't asked a straight question."

"Uncertainty doesn't seem horrible in comparison to utter refusal." Well, look who else was moping. It no longer seemed as potentially manly or heart-wrenching when this kid was in a similar situation, but then again, he wasn't being ushered into a life he didn't want. And certainly not by people he trusted, who were moving him there with almost ruthless efficiency. "At least you can still hope. I… I have no hope left."

Contrary to the opinion of some, Alistair was neither blind nor stupid. Even without the dramatic words, the brief, shy glances towards a redheaded elf girl were enough to relay the whole story to him without words. He also saw that, while Zevran was a paragon of many vices, procrastination and giving up certainly didn't belong among them. Almost as soon as Nimue was away, it appeared to be business as usual.

What was it that people said about mice when the cat was away? He couldn't remember.

"Yes, no kidding. Assassins seem to be popular with the ladies nowadays."

"A-assassins?!" Fortunately, the boy didn't seem to be capable of having a temper tantrum even at such an outrage, making his outburst more of a squeak than anything else. Alistair actually almost felt sorry for the kid, but, given his situation, it was more Schadenfreude than anything. He did feel a little guilty about it, though.

Not enough to really regret it, but a little, yes.

"There´s no need to get too worried about that. I don't think Zevran has any permanent intentions towards your lady friend there." Permanent meaning anything more than one night, of course. With Nimue… with Nimue, that might be many nights, but certainly not what Bann Teagan had offered her. Marriage. He felt very young at the mention of the word, unprepared. "Besides… yes, there it is." Alistair nodded to himself. Where there were multiple attractive and apparently willing females around, the assassin wasn't one to restrain himself. "He's got absolutely no shame."

"But… aren't they bonded?" the elf asked helplessly, gesturing in the general direction of where Nimue had gone.

What Alistair knew of Dalish customs could be fitted into a dagger pouch and still there would be much room to spare. So, naturally, he posed the obvious question. "Bonded?"

If dogs could roll their eyes, then Rabbit did so. Humans and their ceremonies. They believed that some kind of approval was needed for them to mate and have puppies. If these elves had anything right, it was that only the mating ritual itself determined who was to be with whom, not some unnecessary gathering.

"Well, I suppose you humans see that differently." Cammen tried to think back – it wasn't often that Zathrian told them of humans, but as flat-ears came to them, they sometimes shared stories of the cities. They had mentioned something about the Chantry ways as well, he thought. "The Keeper said there was a word for it. M…" Short word. Two syllables? Hopefully. Ah, there it was. "Marriage, if I remember." It was actually wonderful to be able to remember these usually fleeting tidbits of information. You never knew when it could come useful.

Now, if only Zathrian had said something about persuading stubborn girls of true love…

But the odd human wasn't at all assured by this or happy by his having managed to find the proper word for the bonding. In fact, he looked as if he had choked on his own tongue, or if someone had very suddenly and undeservedly kneed him in the crotch. He tried to get up and steady himself at the same time, then breath and avoid turning purplish red in the face.

It was an odd, undignified human reaction, but Cammen wasn't one to judge. If he hadn't been outright rejected by his heart's desire, perhaps he would have reacted the same to the sight of Gheyna talking to another man with less than proper intentions.

"_What?!_" Some of the nearby elves shot Alistair either surprised or dirty looks, but he didn't much care. Having managed to bang his head against a surprisingly low tree branch had something to do with that, of course._ "_Ow! No! No, certainly not!" Right? At least, Nimue wouldn't have done such a thing. Besides, there was Bann Teagan… no. No, such a thing wasn't possible; there hadn't been the time, the means or the opportunity. A decidedly impossible thing. "Zevran wouldn't go that far, anyway."

There was that, of course. The assassin might claim that he was as faithful as any Antivan, but Alistair had some serious doubts about whether the concept of faith in Ferelden was similar to the Antivan version or not. He was getting the distinct impression that Zevran just enjoyed messing with them all in various ways; really bad flirting with any woman, philosophy with Shale, anything possible with Oghren and flaunting whatever street smarts he might possess over Alistair himself.

That had to be it.

Just to be certain, he asked for a confirmation of his theory that this bonding of theirs was supposed to be a religious ceremony – something done in front of the whole clan, with the Keeper acting as a priest, perhaps.

Needless to say, the revelation that sex alone was quite sufficient to make two people _bonded_ among the Dalish was about as welcome to Alistair as an invitation to the annual darkspawn flower-arranging festival.

"O-kay, perhaps he _would_ go that far." And that presented a problem. It meant that the Dalish girls, no matter how numerous, were off-limits to the assassin, assuming he knew about this. And if he didn't yet, he soon would. Which would mean that, once again, his sights would rest on his favorite target. "And then try to weasel out of it."

"I would warn Gheyna, but… I think she would only attribute this to jealousy." No kidding, with this obvious mooning over her. Or perhaps he was just as obvious, Alistair thought gloomily, and Nimue only pretended not to notice to be kind. "I just… I feel so helpless."

"You know what? I think I know what you mean." Alistair muttered as another thing he wasn't able to get rid of – Morrigan – walked past them with frosty indifference, heading towards where their leader and Shale were apparently having a discussion with the halla herder about whether or not the animals found it annoying if birds sat down on their horns.

Rabbit decided to quit while he was ahead and call it a day. There was a lot of work to be done yet.


	13. Bonfires Ever After

The last two weeks have been hellish at uni, but the worst is now over, so the updates should resume. I've had the idea for this chapter in my mind for the longest time. I intend to skip through the canon events as much as possible, because no one likes rereading stuff the game gives you on its own.

I've actually formulated a nice reunion scene for Teagan and Nimue in my mind, so that should go over smoothly. Guess who's still winning the poll? Everyone loves Teagan, it seems, and I actually have several endings in mind for all the possible options, along with some random other outcomes I can't yet spoil.

Since Wynne hasn't made an active appearance for a while, this chapter is partly done from her point of view. Also, Morrigan and Leliana were supposed to be back for a brief scene, but the chapter got way too long, so that was moved to the next chapter, possibly. But the true showstopper is the return of Shale – and expect some more "betting" banter in the next few chapters.

**o.O.o**

**Bonfires Ever After**

**o.O.o**

Wynne observed in these recent days that their leader was no longer as immensely fascinated by forests as she used to be weeks prior.

Months ago, the elf would have eagerly stopped at every crook and crevice to examine them up close, be it by touching or merely observing. Now, after seeing more of Ferelden than the casual traveler could claim, her innate curiosity seemed to have faced just the slightest bit. Which didn't mean that she wasted the opportunity to thoroughly question the talking Grand Oak about sylvans and the like, along with the rest of the forest.

Or perhaps it was the combination of werewolves, undead and murderous trees that was getting to her. She kept ending up trapped between sylvan roots whenever a spell hit home and eventually took to burning her way through to get out. Wood and fire didn't mix too well, but perhaps the trees weren't overly bright in that endeavor.

Morrigan was rubbing off on her, at least a bit. The swamp witch wasn't accompanying them today, however. Nimue had anticipated that trying to settle matters without slaughtering every werewolf in sight (if such things were possible) wouldn't be according to her taste. Today was more about reconnaissance than slaughtering, anyway; that could be dealt with later.

"I hate doing this." Their leader muttered to herself as she set another sylvan ablaze. Likely she was referring to both having to burn the sylvan and her irritation at just that.

"We should be getting close to the section of the forest the Oak mentioned." The elves had been quite vague about Aneirin's possible location in the forest, saying only that he preferred to be with animals, among the wild. Wynne pressed on nonetheless, eyes straying through the trees.

He would be about Nimue's age now; no, older by some years. Still a child compared to her, and she couldn't help but think of him as such.

"I think you are getting better at starting campfires, dear Warden." Zevran was remarkably nonchalant when it came to gathering burning sentient branches into a pile. The elderly mage couldn't say that she was too happy to have the assassin along, but acknowledged that they needed to be swift, light on their feet and vigilant. "Perhaps we should make use of it and dine while we have the opportunity?"

After the misadventure with the ash wraith's camp, they were wary of anything that seemed conveniently pre-arranged for travelers, but this was more of a happy coincidence of their own making. No matter what the Chantry may claim, magic was highly useful at all times.

Nimue looked around, for all the good it did; her ability to spot traps and the like was negligible unless there was a big sign saying "EXPECT TRAP HERE" flashing above it. At least she admitted to that. "Are you sure it's safe enough for that?"

"Is it ever, with you around?" Zevran asked, laughing as he made certain that the flames didn't spread beyond their intended place. "Have no fear. I don't think this aroma can overpower your canine friend's nose when it comes to foul stenches."

"What a relief." Nimue noted flatly as Rabbit darted off into the nearby bushes and returned a few minutes later with what appeared to be a surprisingly well-preserved armor codpiece.

**o.O.o**

Apparently, the bonfire was large enough not only to repulse animals, but also to attract those wishing to put it out. Thus they inadvertently managed to locate Aneirin – by having him come to them.

He wore the markings of the Dalish, but apparently wasn't truly part of the nearby tribe. His magic had grown stronger and he truly looked like a mage out of the old stories, at peace with his gift and in harmony with his surroundings. Wynne was prouder than she could say, even though she had aided in this accomplishment by almost ruining the boy.

Frightened fourteen-year-old Aneirin, with his flame-like hair and jewels for eyes, was now at peace with his place in the world. Offering her forgiveness, after all these years.

The Maker worked in mysterious ways, and sometimes, she wasn't convinced he didn't have a sense of humor.

They spoke a while of the Dalish, of the Circle, but mostly of the young elf's life after his miraculous resurrection from the templars' blades. Somehow, the rest of their companions seemed to have silently acknowledged that now wasn't the time to be nosy and busied themselves about otherwise. Or perhaps it was simply because they were both elves and understood the mind of a kinsman better than her without the need to exchange any words.

For someone of such unconventional past, Zevran was actually a more than passable cook; and with Wynne being occupied and the only alternative being Nimue, this was a very easy decision. Not that much finesse was required when their supplies were limited to whatever animal they might have been forced to slay and herbs from Nimue's non-essential supply.

The mage was digging through her meticulously arranged pack just as Wynne tried to carefully suggest to her former student that returning to the Circle now might be of great help to everyone involved. It was a great request to make, but Maker knew their need matched it.

"I imagine the templars would be rather surprised to see one of their supposed apostates resurrected." Aneirin was as mild-mannered as ever, though no longer twitchy and nervous. His calm actually increased the moment the enormous mabari warhound dashed off into the woods once more, perhaps to look for ingredients. It was hard to tell. "But I have no wish to return to the Tower; I love the forest, the life it teems with. But your Warden; she is a mage, is she not?"

That question was easily answered when Nimue hesitantly accepted a gnarled piece of wood from the recently returned warhound and caused it to shoot sparks through an accidental surge of magic. The dog was gone within a flash, off to search for more "interesting things" as the mage rummaged through her things to find a place to store the new object.

"She is indeed." Wynne took a small sip of her stew to test the waters, survived easily and tried to imagine if the younger woman could even display such tenderness to something other than herbs. "But I don't know if my plea to have her return to us can trump a nobleman's offer of marriage."

While sorting through whatever they had recovered from the many fallen monsters, Nimue had apparently found something that caused her movements to cease. Her full attention was focused on the object for a few moments, pondering what to do with it. From this angle, it was difficult to see what it was.

"A human would take a mage in marriage, and an elf at that?" Aneirin wondered aloud, but didn't allow the calm demeanor to vanish from his countenance. Wynne could honestly admit to being proud of him. "It seems that I may know much of the world I live in, but the thinking of humans continues to escape me."

Elves were strange in many ways to Wynne as well, so she supposed that evened it out. She honestly couldn't understand how Nimue always managed to find an object that might be of interest to one of her companions; it was almost like a whip had cracked, the moment she made her choice. The older mage was of the firm opinion that instigating any kind of conversation with Zevran was just begging for a headache, but for some reason, even the assassin's ever-present grin froze as Nimue said something while handing him the object.

"I am no wiser in such matters than you are, believe me." There were many things she felt too old to be concerned about, let alone understand, and the whole affair of which man might end up with their leader was certainly one of those. In any case, her duty at this point was simply to make certain that no one forgot about the Blight while worrying about Nimue's romance choices. Especially their leader herself. "I am… beyond glad that you are still alive." She smiled, having no better way to express it. "And happy among your people. I was never able to give you that… not that I tried."

"You weren't the abysmal teacher you seem to remember." Aneirin was either far too tolerant or entirely unfazed by whatever was happening about twenty meters away. Then again, he didn't know either of the elves well, nor did he deign Wynne's careful side observance of the proceedings with a remark. "It is simply a matter of belonging somewhere, which cannot be created artificially. I wasn't meant to be a Circle mage. My place is here, amongst the wild. I should thank you for your inexperience back then. Otherwise, I might have never seen the outside of the tower's walls."

The mystery object turned out to be gloves, if the assassin putting them on in place of the blood-stained ones was any indication. Nimue was saying something, but apparently looking at the person she was talking to was too much of a stretch for her conversational capabilities. Of course, being on the verge of having one's personal space invaded tended to do that. Oddly, the assassin had gone very still as she spoke.

"It seems that duty or tragedy always accompany the act of leaving the tower permanently." Wynne tried to finish her food before it got cold and almost succeeded in burning her tongue. Magic could often do the same; it was a suitable metaphor. Sometimes, the desire for freedom could overrule wisdom quite easily. Especially in the young.

Which wasn't to say the Tower or its templars were sensible, but… there were other dangers in the world that magic attracted, not only its prevention.

Aneirin's face remained peaceful, but Wynne could tell that he still held no love for the human customs that ruled over these lands. "As long as your Chantry holds onto its beliefs about magic, there can be no peace between them and us." he said, without malice, but without too much hope as well. "I wish it were different, but that is beyond the ability of any of us to change… even your friend there."

Zevran was saying something this time; judging by the particular width of his grin and the mildly defensive posture the mage had taken, it was likely that Nimue was probably being asked about whether her bust, too, was a result of magic. Or perhaps the true compliment in the Antivan way would be saying that such augmentations were unnecessary for her…

This was most definitely a destructive train of thought, not to mention a highly irrational one. Wynne blamed the assassin just on principle, what with his endless flirtatious tirades. Apparently, Nimue was to be properly _thanked_ for a gift – and Wynne was quite certain that in Antiva, that meant something that was not suitable for children under fifteen to hear.

Wynne decided to intervene by the point when Nimue seemed to be considering backing away just a little. Normally, she met challenges head on, so this was a definite sign that help was required – and the Circle mage felt indebted to her for pointing her in the right direction regarding Aneirin, to say the very least. After so long in a company of misfits, he was actually peacefully normal, only nodding encouragingly when she spared him a brief glance.

Nimue looked part exasperated, part embarrassed, but decidedly nothing like a Grey Warden and fearsome slayer of darkspawn in that moment.

"-can hardly remain unreciprocated." Judging by the wideness of the assassin's not-at-all-innocent smile, any variation of a refusal at this point would be considered merely self-denial that could yet be persuaded otherwise. Acknowledging the physical closeness, Nimue actually visibly moved away this time, inch by inch. Zevran's grin warped into a pout that was about as convincing as Oghren's cranky proclamations of sobriety. "Is it now not permissible to kiss one's own wife?"

Wynne felt her eyebrows rise almost as far as her hairline. "I'm certain this story will have a magnificent explanation." The interjection was effective, no matter its contents, giving Nimue an out from the rather uncomfortable situation.

"First of all, it's a lie I agreed to play along with to dissuade the Dalish girls from forming ill-advised infatuations." Nimue gratefully focused all her attention on the other mage, edging away still from the assassin, though Wynne wasn't imagining the reddish tinge to her complexion. "Apparently, they consider sex marriage." Explaining was a safe ground. Explaining, the elf could handle. "Secondly, gifts require no reward. Leave it at that." she added pointedly to Zevran, who remained the picture of false innocence.

Oh, she would regret agreeing to this, Wynne could see it already. Nimue had no idea what she had allowed by saying this, none at all.

"And thirdly, cake doesn't go too well with the rest of the food." Perhaps she had intended to say something different altogether, but Rabbit had chosen that moment to reenter the scene, with another gift for his mistress – a half-eaten cake, its frosting almost melted off. Where he had gotten it remained a mystery.

Whether they would keep it certainly wasn't.

**o.O.o**

They made it to the elven ruins just before nightfall and it soon became clear that entering them would have to be their first priority. The werewolves may regroup and try to attack again, or they might simply overwhelm them were they stood. Either way, an element of surprise was crucial, as was the advantage they had now.

As Aneirin wished to have nothing to do with the fighting, he bade them farewell and returned to the forest. Nimue spoke to him briefly and asked him to bring message to the Dalish encampment, if he passed it, that they might need help with this problem, as they were still somewhat short on melee fighters. The healer promised to do so before departing, though he warned them that whatever aid they sought might arrive too late.

Nimue shared that sentiment. They needed a little rest, though, before they once again threw themselves to death's welcoming claws for the sake of Ferelden. Who would have imagined months ago that even throwing oneself into battle and fighting for one's life day after day could become tedious and predictable under the right circumstances?

That was one of the things Nimue feared; boredom. Repetition, with every day being just the same as the last, without any possibility of a variation.

But most of all, the cage that came with that.

Yet she had come to realize something after having given the gloves she had found to Zevran. Her actions, her delay in making a decision, were injustice to others than just herself. She had to purge the memory of each meaningless touch, each simple word that had caused her less than world-wise manners to crack and her determination to falter. Because feelings were _so_ logical and easily dissected, analyzed and catalogued. Suddenly, she wasn't so surprised by Jowan's blunders during their ill-fated escape attempt. Her own judgment was now impaired, it seemed.

Her senses, too, because she didn't even notice that Zevran wasn't at all resting like he should be while she was on watch duty. Only long-term exposure to stealthy thieves prevented her from accidentally cutting her finger with her alchemy knife as the assassin downright materialized at her side.

"Surely you cannot remain cross with me for much longer." Considering that the assassin was giving her one of the more innocently mischievous looks he had in his arsenal, Nimue rather doubted that. Still, she wasn't going to argue just yet. Or let him off the hook that easily, for that matter.

"I am not cross with you… much." she said, making an effort to be capricious as she chopped more elfroot with precision. As long as the object under her knife was immobile, the mage was quite meticulous in her cutting efforts.

Of course, if the person she was speaking to happened to be excellent at cutting up both mobile and motionless targets, this idle action did nothing to dissuade them from approaching further. Or perhaps it was just Zevran being himself; that is, blissfully ignorant of the concept of personal space. Nimue refused to admit having gotten used to the idea over the passing months.

"Honesty, compassion and beauty; how can any man resist such a mixture?" the assassin praised with a wide grin, sitting down just a little too close to her. That wouldn't be altered unless she made a move to either encourage or repel this, of course, which was a little reassuring.

Just a little, though; it did nothing to unravel the knot in Nimue's stomach.

"A werewolf, apparently." Certainly Swiftrunner hadn't been moved by arguments or threats. The only way to get them to talk was to corner them in their lair…. And, right now, this meant killing every werewolf in sight until they were acknowledged as warriors. Nimue sighed at the wastefulness of this. "I grow tired of this chasing around on errands. Just once, I'd like a spokesperson to just say: "Great, we´re going. Right now, no strings attached." There was a certain simplicity to life in the Tower."

"A tedious routine where the slightest deviation could cost you your pretty head?" Zevran suggested, remembering the mage tower all too well. Given the way the Knight-Commander had greeted her and the stony reception she had received from others, it didn't seem that the Warden was on everyone's tea party list. She seemed to bear them no ill will, though, as there was not the slightest hiccup to her knife's movements.

"That too." How long would it be before the life of a trophy wife – a warrior forced to lounge among high-nosed ladies – became the very thing she had escaped? In the Tower, she hadn't smiled once. In his company, the expression usually had to be coaxed out against her will, but Zevran was by now quite apt at doing just that. "But I guess they taught us to be efficient, if little else. From point A to point B."

"That sounds terribly boring, my dear." Of course, it probably explained the public secret of mages being apparently promiscuous; efficiency above all else, indeed, what with the robes… at times, the assassin wished such rumors applied to their own mages, at least one of them. His luck was apparently restricted to surviving if one believed age excluded her from seeking companionship, another seemed intent to thrive on negativity and the last one… well, she was a Grey Warden. To expect a quick surrender would be folly. "Besides, that way, you wouldn't be as gloriously infamous as you are today. And perhaps you wouldn't have the pleasure of my company right now."

Graciously, Nimue humored him, but rolled her eyes nonetheless. "We can't have that, obviously." She even got the right combination of indulgence and sarcasm this time.

Zevran's grin widened, almost touched by the effort. "See? I knew you'd come to care eventually. Truce, then?" he offered magnanimously when Nimue chose not to answer. This… whatever it was they had, or what she was giving him, whichever; it mustn't be allowed to vanish. And it most likely would – most certainly it would upon her marriage to a man who had picked her as his bride with a checklist in tow. "Unless you've acknowledged the golden opportunity the current situation presents you with and intend to make up in a most delicious way…"

This was how it should have happened: She would have smiled, surprised at first, but then, acknowledging things as a distant truth coming back into being; the expression would have descended into certainty. The useless little objects would have fallen out of her hands, away from their grasp as she opened her arms without any further hesitation. And he wouldn't have wasted an instant on contemplating if he was worthy or if this was right – the answers to both were clear and inconsequential.

From the moment of dusk to the first hours of light, their lovemaking wouldn't cease for even an instant, laying the foundations of forever in his mind. And if, in the morning, she chose to set him free, this memory would sustain him on the road through the darkness to come. If she let him go… what was there left, after all? Better to think of suffering than nothingness. He didn't dare imagine seeing that passion reignited in her face the following night and the next one and again as forever passed around them as a brief instant.

This wasn't how it happened, of course.

"Truce." Nimue said, too quickly. She didn't move away (practice, that) and forced her voice to soften in an instant. "Truce."

Fear was good. It meant that doubt yet lingered and didn't allow things to be set in stone.

If there was a single thing Zevran had never imagined himself doing, then it certainly had to be feeling somewhat envious of a vegetable. But with the way Nimue meticulously replaced the elfroot she had been cutting with another one, her fingers moving almost like a caress… well, no one could claim that his life was conventional. Neither were his tastes, for that matter.

"Alas, once more must I comfort myself with dreams of your luscious thighs." Not even all the elfroot in the world could have hidden the almost luminescent rosy sheen highlighting the angles of the mage's cheekbones. This, coupled with the fear, spelled hope. "How else can I get through the cold night, alone?"

"Some of us want more than just one night, Zevran." Nimue said quietly, still keeping her eyes fixed on her knife's movements.

This uncharacteristic lack of acerbic wit of any shade surprised the assassin, but he managed to catch the sentiment and tuck it away safely before anything of it could be revealed. There were many ways of interpreting that truth – because, try as she might, Nimue wasn't too good at lying – and none of them were safe waters to venture into. Were it not she, this would be the moment to press on and seduce with the right words. But this time, the words wouldn't come, the honeyed alterations of reality, the sweet nothings.

Out of hatred for the weakness every scrap of kindness she offered, the easiness with which her every word chipped his defenses just a little bit more and his own inability to stop himself for clinging to this very weapon, the truth came out as easy as breathing.

"Given the opportunity to choose, I, too, would prefer many."

**o.O.o**

Shale hadn't hoped that the rest of the elves would be nearly as agreeable as the enchantress and, unsurprisingly, she was proven right.

Though some of them were self-proclaimed hunters, none appreciated the finesse of exploding or crushing things. Aside from the bald elf, none of them possessed enough functional magic to count as anything more than pests and their bows would most likely be little more than irritant wasps to her fine stone form. Overall, she was unimpressed.

Worse, however, was the fact that the enchantress had left the most annoying members of its band behind. The drunken dwarf was lying unconscious in the middle of a clearing, its ever-full tankard spilling its contents all over the nearby ground. Every elf made a face upon coming near and avoided it as much as possible; it seemed they doubted that grass would ever grow on that patch of soil again. The dog wasn't present, having been chosen on a scouting expedition, so there was no one to actively gloat to about the sudden gossip about the closeness between the painted elf and the enchantress.

And, of course, the clown knight remained. Now deprived of its one listener, it didn't know what to do with itself. Especially since the sister was trying to make nice with the elves and neither the swamp witch nor the qunari was a particularly potent conversationalist.

"You seem rather twitchy, Shale." And so, it sought small talk in the crudest and most annoying manner possible. How very predictable it was, with its infantile jokes. Why the squishy humans were considering this one as their possible king was a mystery to the golem. "I haven't seen pigeons here in the forest yet."

"The pests are everywhere, so that is hardly reason enough for me to be overly concerned." Crows were unpleasant too, but at least slightly more decent than the fiends. In any case, the elves were cause enough for avian creatures to stay away from the encampment. Shale still rather thought the halla must be irritated by the presence of their horns. "No, I simply don't fancy being left being when heads need squishing. I've never squished a werewolf's head before. Perhaps it will make a remarkable sound. I would very much like to catalogue that."

The clown knight cringed a little bit, but wasn't yet dissuaded from seeking further conversation. "You know, it might do you a world of good to find a new hobby." Hobby? Crushing heads was a lifestyle. "Like, say, collecting flowers. You could talk with Leliana about that, like you did about shoes the other day. I hear she's got a collection."

"Why would it wish to collect dead plant matter?" Humans made very little sense. At least the enchantress used her dead plants to create potions and such for healing the squishy liquid wounds. But collecting reproductive plant matter for no reason at all seemed like a perversion of the highest order. "Crushing heads is a perfectly acceptable hobby. There isn't any need to look after anything other than looking out for a new head to crush."

"Of course, my mistake to think that you would want to do anything even remotely considered socially acceptable." the clown knight muttered with a sigh, running a hand through its hair. It had the utterly opposite effect to what it might have wished, making it looked more like a chicken than ever.

Shale no longer wondered why calling someone a piece of poultry was substituted as an insinuation of cowardice.

"That it seems to consider a society that creates golems a moral standard of some kind gives me a clear picture of its judgment capabilities." she remarked dryly. Once, it had lorded its closeness to the enchantress over her. It seemed that now was as good a time as any to level the playing field. "It wanted to go with the enchantress too. It always gets more annoying when the enchantress leaves it behind."

"I know." the clown knight said, sitting down on a nearby log. That it didn't even argue her point was a clear sign of dejection, at the very least. If Shale were the kind of person who sympathized with the helpless, she would have taken pity on it. But alas, she wasn't. "I wouldn't leave her side if it were up to me." It made a frustrated noise, tensing, its fists clenching for a while. "Maker, even the dog got to go, but not me."

"Its stomping like a rabid boar might have something to do with that decision." Shale suggested, idly examining one of the statues the Dalish had erected. Not the best stonework she had ever seen, but at least these creatures understood that the creation of life from stone had to be frowned upon.

"Oh, very funny, coming from the stone-footed golem."

"I am made entirely of stone; its point is rather labored."

"That doesn't make it any less valid." The clown knight was being childish, but also truthful. That was a rare combination for it. It might have something to do with the leftovers from dinner it was still nursing, but even a bite of its well-beloved dairy products no longer seemed to mellow out its irritated attitude. "And these Dalish couldn't make a proper cheese if they tried… which they don't." With a grimace, it threw the leftover bit of cheese away, only to regret it a moment later when a crow swooped in with expertise and snatched it from under its nose. There had to be some kind of symbolism in that, especially since the bird flew away before Shale could crush it out of boredom. "I'm actually looking forward to coming back to Redcliffe."

Now was as good a time for teasing as any, Shale figured, so she took the bait. "It has come to terms with the enchantress bonding with the other male?" That was a low blow, but the golem allowed herself a snort. "I might just have to watch for pigeons falling out of the sky."

Which would be convenient, mind you. It was so much easier not to chase something when you could crush it under your foot.

The clown knight spared her an irritated but not yet angered glance. "You'll have to wait for that a little while longer. She hasn't agreed. I would like to think she was being polite, but…" Alistair understood much that had eluded him before. The memory of the kiss burned him, as if he had been the one to receive it. "She's the only person I have left in the world that means everything." he spoke more to himself than to the golem, almost formulating the words he would say to Nimue. "I want… I want my family."

Not Arl Eamon, the not-quite-father who had never been able to acknowledge him as anything more than a stray kept out of kindness. Not the Grey Wardens, because none of them was Duncan and a round peg simply couldn't fit into a square-shaped hole. Not even Goldanna, with her flame-like hair and sharp features, preparing tea with children running around her. He didn't have a claim on any of them any longer.

It was Nimue, with her clumsy uncertainty, wary pragmatism and unrelenting drive that formed his family now.

"It wishes to breed with the enchantress?" Shale simplified things most accurately. Judging by the blood rushing to its head, this was a fact. "_Disgusting_. And a waste of good material." she noted absent-mindedly, wondering how much blood it would take for the clown knight's head to spontaneously burst without any intervention from her. It would certainly be a new record. "The combination would likely be brought down to average once more. Unfortunate."

"I happen to love her." So it did have a spine; its voice was finally laced with righteous anger when its apparent feelings for the enchantress were being cheapened. Certainly the enchantress could do worse (though not by far), but… Shale scoffed at the notion of sentimentality. "Not that you would understand such things, I suppose." the clown knight murmured, idly looking at the nearby food supplies to search for more cheese. Once it found its prize, it struck faster than it ever did in combat.

"Does it matter, if the enchantress doesn't know about its feelings?"

The clown knight's shoulders slumped just for a moment, but the cheese it was stuffing its face with seemed to grant it some foolish courage. "No… but it will." It proclaimed, and Shale actually almost believed the proclamation. "I'll tell her. I'll tell her the moment she comes back."

The golem made a mental note to idly watch for the falling chickens just the same.


	14. Clumsily Towards Ever After

This chapter was inspired by the Sigrun/Oghren conversations in Awakening, some comments from the toolset and the assumption on the part of some readers that the previous chapter's lines could be interpreted only in a romantic context. You have been warned.

The next chapter is intended to be Alistair-focused, so never fear, the love confession is not far in coming!

**o.O.o**

**Clumsily Towards Ever After**

**o.O.o**

"You're incorrigible."

Nimue had quite honestly lost count just how often she had used that particular sentence to refer to the assassin. One moment he was giving her sound and almost heartfelt advice and the next he was actually _explaining_ said advice, making her blush ten shades of scarlet on purpose.

In fact, given the nature of that advice, the mage had almost promised herself not to have anything romantic – eh, sexual – to do with him, because she doubted her head could handle more blood pressure. How could someone be so utterly and completely shameless? On second thought, she didn't want to find out that much.

Probably the same way as someone like her could be completely hostile to anything even remotely suggesting that she might be sympathetic towards the Chantry; enforced experience. Not exactly what she might like to think about at that exact instant.

In any case, there was little to do besides sit around the makeshift fire they had enkindled and talk while Wynne tried to employ her healing skills on the mabari warhound; Rabbit had stepped into a trap during their last fight, injuring one of his hind paws. The last thing any of them wanted was to risk crippling the mabari, so they immediately agreed that an hour or so of rest wasn't going to do them too much harm. After all, it isn't as if the werewolves had anywhere else to run, now that they had found their lair.

Of course, there were downsides to inevitable campfire conversations with the likes of Zevran, especially when you were the only possible target to his innuendo that was available for a response.

"You bring out my strongest passions, my dear, so I can hardly be blamed for that." There was blood and death and ancient stonework all around them – littered with one too many undead skeletons for Nimue's liking, but the assassin was purring in the same voice he might have used in a high-class brothel or very intentionally decorated bedroom. She was actually a bit awed by this skill. "Surely it isn't such a dreadful future to imagine? Nights of endless passion to the sound of breathless gasps…"

It hardly need be said that his eyes never strayed from the mage's, which was ten times as suggestive as if he had outright stared at her breasts. Honestly, it was a talent.

"None of this is helping your case." _Keep telling yourself that, lather, rinse, repeat. Your will is strong, your magic great. Your staff is long enough to clobber him from here._ "Besides, our survival is still very doubtful."

"Such a pessimist, my, my. I would never have suspected." _Why put off happiness till tomorrow when you can have it within a moment?_ _A woman with such magnificent thighs shouldn't look so morose._ "Why worry about tomorrow when you can still live today?"

It was the first aspect of her life where she had been given free reign over, but the last one she was willing to exercise it over. Highly contradictive from someone who valued their freedom and contraproductive as well.

"So you live every day like your last… but without desperation? I envy that."

_Don't you? Do you? _"There is a line between enthusiasm and desperation that one can easily cross." Zevran shrugged, poking the fire with a stick. Alistair had once clumsily suggested that the mages use their staves for this, which hadn't gone over so well. "You can never quite escape what you are, but you can be made to forget… for a time. Such moments are made to be treasured, yes? You have not yet learned to allow yourself that, because everyone looks to you for something."

Nimue was quite certain this wasn't a conversation she wanted to get into at this moment, so she did the diplomatic thing and turned to where Wynne was healing the mabari. The older mage was frowning, but her hands glowed steadily with healing magic.

"How much longer will it take?"

"Not too long, I assume; but you must understand that healing animals is different than healing humans… or elves, for that matter." Wynne added in order to be polite. The hound whinnied a little bit, which made his mistress walk over and give his ears a small rub, the way he liked it. He seemed to calm a little after that, though Wynne couldn't imagine what the girl saw in such an immense beast. "I am reaching rather blindly for what needs to be done."

"We can have a look through the rooms we cleared out while you work. There might be some more bandages around or something."

They had gone through most of the ruins on this level, clearing things out without too much trouble, but there was always the chance that there were more of those dreadful undead around – or worse, the black-armoured revenants. They did seem to run into quite a lot of them recently.

"Nimue, are you certain you want to go? It might not be safe yet."

"My lovely Wynne, you do care!" Ah, yes, she had been wondering when the usual interference would start. She didn't even see when the roguish assassin had managed to get within three steps of her, but she knew exactly what that familiar leer on his face meant. "How cruel of you to tease me so with your indifference."

At times like this, she didn't know if Zevran was only mocking her or having some wild jest at the expense of the rest of the world. He couldn't be serious about this, though, just as he couldn't be serious about anything else, it seemed.

But Wynne was quite certain that if Nimue suggested that she stay with the assassin, one of their voices would be rising an octave through some unpleasant means, conversational or magical.

"On second thought, go. Quickly, before I start hurting people instead of healing them."

The Warden was already out the door and talking determined steps to a ruined library she remembered seeing somewhere nearby when Zevran blew the very much not amused mage a kiss. However, the prospect of exploring a long-forgotten ruin with no chaperone lurking over his shoulder and the young woman as his companion was too much of a tempting prospect to ignore, especially when it seemed that she wasn't going to wait around untiol he decided what to do.

She herself was indecisive but couldn't tolerate the same weakness in others. Marvelous, really.

Of course, it helped that he was exceptionally swift and their invincible Warden could be very inattentive to their surroundings when she was intently focused on a particular something. That meant that she was very liable to ignore the very ground under her feet, which wasn't too advisable in a ruin littered with crumbled stonework, collapsed skeletons and ancient armor.

Zevran caught up with her halfway down the hallway, just in time to see her trip over the remnants of a collapsed pillar and grab a statue of one of the elven gods by a part of its anatomy that would no doubt hurt afterwards, were it alive.

"Are you all right, Nimue?" She even had to be helped to her feet, but tried to shrug it off.

"I-yes, I-ow…" And just a step farther along the way, she had to sit down on the debris that had started all this and untwist her foot from the ancient tree root in which it had managed to get caught. "Maker and Creators sod it, I hate this place!"

Stone, tower, walls, no windows, never get out, escape, escape, never ever…

From someone who almost never swore, those were strong words indeed. Then again, she wasn't overly dexterous and Zevran was feeling gracious enough to help her as long as physical contact was involved, so he crouched down to help her get the laces of her peculiar mage-shoe free (because boots just didn't go with robes, according to Leliana).

"I am not overly fond of crumbling stonework myself, but anger will hardly serve you in a fight against the architecture."

"I know that." She still sounded frustrated. "I'm sorry, I-"

Zevran glanced up at her delightfully flushed face, giving a mild grin. "Why are you apologizing, darling girl?" Truth to be told, she always did this, apologizing without reason. It was sort of uncomfortable.

"I'm… not entirely sure." the mage confessed, wiggling her foot out of the trapped shoe when the assassin managed to do with a little patience where strength hadn't served her. Then, she twirled her foot a little bit, frowning at the soreness. "Ow, I really didn't need this."

"You will live to walk another day, have no fear of that." It was more surprise than anything, the brief shudder when she had her shoe returned where it belonged and fastened firmly, but Nimue appreciated the assistance more than she could say. "Or perhaps you would like me to carry you back to our talented healer?"

Until _that grin_ came back, at least. However, given the fact that she hadn't thanked him, she chose to be gracious, smile and forget about it.

"I'll manage, not that the offer isn't appreciated."

"So self-sufficient you are." She didn't even require assistance standing up, even though she was rather ungraceful about the motion. Zevran nonetheless watched her with glee, if not mild frustration. If she only _said_ that her tastes ran in another direction, but this vagueness would be the death of him. "The more I observe you, the less confident I feel in this marriage of ours. And you know that such things bode ill for both of us."

Did the Dalish even have divorce? It was nearly unheard of among the Chantry-worshipping humans, but perhaps the elves were different in this matter.

"You aren't going to let this go until we leave the Dalish, are you?" Nimue sighed, but it was an exaggerated sound. She had suggested this, after all, and she would be lying if she said that part of her – the perverse and masochistic side of her, no doubt – was actually having the slightest bit of fun. "I should have figured. Well, Grey Wardens are about sacrifices, I guess."

Sacrifices? Now that _hurt_, it really did.

"Might I remind you that it was you who proposed, my nefarious nymph?" Keeping up with her and staying _close_ was entirely too easy now that she was actually paying attention to the scattered debris. Her ears were vaguely red, but the mage's breathing was too even, too steady not to be forced. There were chinks in her armor still. "Yet you condemn my husbandly duties to you before even sampling them. How very cruel of you."

Maker sod it, why was marriage everywhere all of a sudden?

Here she thought she was not only saving the hearts and minds of many a misfortunate elf, but also saving herself a headache. And, considering the many more depraved things she and the others had heard Zevran talk about as if it were as natural as breathing, Nimue had absolutely no doubt that if she said anything that could even remotely be interpreted as "I should be fair about my condemnations, then, and make certain.", they wouldn't make it out of the ruins for several more hours, at least.

And the very last thing she wanted was to have her first sexual experience in a place such as this.

That meant below-the-belt strikes were asked for.

"Very well, then; I accept." She stopped, faced the assassin and took the figurative plunge. He wasn't the only one who could play dirty; if he could play the promiscuous rake, she could play the prudish sex-only-after-marriage virgin. "Once we're out of these ruins, I'll ask the Dalish Keeper to marry us properly." Were she not a little bit nervous about this approach, Nimue would have noticed quite readily that this was the second time she had apparently succeeding in stunning Zevran, even though for different reasons than the "Oghren's standard-setting bosom" conversation had managed. "I'm actually curious about their traditions." Her intrigued musing was a weak impersonation, but the previous remark had served sufficiently well. "And I'm certain Leliana will be able to negotiate some kind of arrangement at the nearest Chantry."

"Just what would your ruggedly handsome nobleman say to such a scandalous suggestion?" Ah, yes, there was that. Aside from that, it would most decidedly have worked. But then again, Zevran did seem a little paler after this casual mention of marriage.

"This looks wonderful."

The woman was trying to kill him, Zevran concluded uneasily. First, she gave no answer at all, then, out of the blue, suggested marriage (_as if her own potential engagement meant nothing at all, though he wasn't certain whether that was a good thing_) and, best of all, then spotted some kind of phylactery or something and reached to examine it, as if she had said nothing at all.

Not necessarily the kind of response he imagined. Especially the subsequent silence and tinkering with the thing (she whispered something to it, which might have been magic, but he couldn't quite hear, because her previous words were ringing loudly in his ears, loud enough to drown out even Rinna's laughter when _she_ suggested that they become lovers).

The truly disturbing thing was that he couldn't entirely decide whether the deadpan serious voice she had suggested that in had had any kind of truth in it. It was just such a foreign, outrageous idea… and she was smiling now, almost ready to wave a hand in front of his face to snap him out of this sudden trance.

Maker above, but she was an insufferable _minx_ when she put her mind to it! If she was half as inventive in bed as she was with her tongue… hmm…

"Earth to Zevran, I'm done with this, we can go." she said, her voice colored with laughter.

Admitting weakness wasn't the best of strategies, so the assassin decided to play along as he followed her. "Now, now, I thought you would be the one cautioning me about touching ancient mechanisms I know nothing about. Remember that most agreeable wraith you stirred up?"

"Where's your sense of adventure?" Now, at last, her mood had apparently brightened. A job well done for him, then, if he could make her forget her burdens in any way. "Ancient ruins, possible treasures…"

"Werewolves, black vials, vengeful wraiths…" They were walking past all these things, now dead and destroyed. But the ruins didn't seem to have an end, just endless burial rooms. Where were the bedrooms when you needed them? "My dear, you and I have very different ideas of adventure and work."

"I thought you said even falling down a flight of stai-" Ferelden had a strange language, but there was not a word in existence that required such a sudden increase of tone and volume, especially the odd accompaniment of a decidedly unsubtle splash of water.

And then Nimue was gone, but the mass of colorful robes and long hair floating through the water of the decidedly unmarked square-shaped opening in the ground were distinctly reminiscent of her attire, even with all the bubbles and sloshing.

A few moments later, the elf clumsily surfaced, all her limbs slamming against the water as if she intended to punish it for its very presence. It was adorable, really, in a very twisted and murderous way.

"Well, fancy that; an underground pool." The water had darkened Nimue's hair and flattened it around her face, but the most appealing feature of this rather amusing sight was just how the extra weight of the liquid served to emphasize her body through the fabric. Whoever had decided that this was to be the prime fashion for mages had certainly known what they were doing. "These Tevinter humans were much more inventive than I thought."

Still partially submerged – and sinking or floating depending on how quickly she managed to repeat her frantic motions that in no way resembled a swimming technique – the mage wasn't amused. "Could you stop thinking whatever you're thinking about and _help me out of this thing_?!"

"They didn't put some stairs there to help you exit?" Zevran would have joked somewhat, if not for the note of panic in their normally fearless leader's words. "Now that is a true design lapse."

Since Nimue rarely raised her voice without cause, this was more than a little strange and sexy to boot, what with the gasping for breath. Of course, having her drown would be highly detrimental to the appeal of that vision, so the assassin pulled her out of the water without too much trouble. Her balance was completely upset, so she couldn't even get to her feet, her hair was slick and dripping while still framing her face somewhat, but, most of all, she looked frightened.

Zevran had seen the woman face down a pride abomination five times her size with grim determination and only post-battle fear. Yet now, she was shivering with far more than just simple coldness, as if the water had bitten her, at the very least.

Her grip on the hand that had pulled her out was rigid to the point of painful, but also a convenient excuse to kneel down to her level. And, for the first time, his brave Warden looked like she finally realized the enormity of the task ahead of her and just how easily things could be tipped in the wrong way. Strange that an accidental dive had managed to do what dragons and walking trees hadn't.

Maker, she actually looked feverish for a moment, like a withered wraith. Well, not entirely so – she had too much charm to ever descend to that level – but this was the closest to that resemblance she was likely to get.

"Are you all right?" The assassin didn't know how to sound gentle or soothing, but neither was necessary. The closer he drew, the stiller she grew, tremor by tremor, even if her eyes continued staring at an undefined point of the floor. But she didn't move away or lessen her grip of iron. "It was just water, my dear."

The mage looked as if the archdemon had swallowed her, chewed her very thoroughly and then spat her out into a vat full of salt. And then she snapped at the hint of patronizing sympathy and awarded Zevran with a frustrated glare for the effort at comforting her (was that what he had been doing? He wasn't entirely certain, because it didn't seem to involve nudity or proper physical contact).

"I _know_ that!" Then, as if a whip had cracked overhead, Nimue blinked this sudden upsurge of anger away and lowered her gaze in what wasn't quite an apology. "I… I can't swim." she said slowly, with the childlike simplicity someone like her couldn't afford.

Zevran realized that he was privy to something intimate; like a revelation that was being entrusted to remain carefully hidden. Funny, what he had been doing piece by piece over the past months of their acquaintance a misfortunately located pool managed within an instant. He didn't have to like its methods, but couldn't argue with the obvious results.

Those foolish human nobles – pure and bastard alike – could keep their dream-come-true Hero of Ferelden; there was a woman of flesh and blood warm in his hands, not a sodding statue of stone perfection.

And he could _feel_ that with more than just his skin, which was at least as frightening as her experience of a minute or so ago.

"I imagine the lovely natural moat around your tower is intended to keep mages in rather than keep others out." The assassin willed himself to talk; pretty, empty words that were a barricade against the world. That was his routine; that was how he continued to stand tall and face everything with an almost blithe readiness to die. This almost earnest apology was anything but meaningless, but perhaps it was just the shallowness of her rapid breaths distracting him. "I didn't realize that."

That was a lie, of course; the more her breathing steadied, the more aware he was made of the water trailing down her skin and the warmth she had lost.

Fear was arguably the most real of emotions she had displayed in a long time; unchecked, unregulated, just… there. It wasn't attractive in the least, nor did it set the correct mood for any more pleasurable forms of consolation, but it was a piece of her without a doubt.

"That's all right." Nimue's voice was smaller, but steadying now, and it was only a matter of time before she realized how close they were, how improper this was and that she perhaps _owed him_ something – which, in this situation, would be deliberately shutting him out with all her might. It didn't happen yet. "I was just… scared… for a moment." And then she looked at him, actually looked and saw… and didn't turn away when she could have, even if she couldn't smile. "Thanks."

He had to let her go and do so quickly – this was the first time he was thinking such utter nonsense about a person he desired sexually, so it seemed downright insane – but the best Zevran could do was pull her up to her feet with what was almost politeness-

_I love you! From the bottom of my heart, my dearest, my love, don't let me go, no, no, no, don't let me die, please, there is only you, no, please!_

-but couldn't force himself to let go of her hand, because she wasn't in fact a statue that could just survive the wind and rain and whatever the Maker saw fit to throw at her without any support.

Killing her would have been difficult at the peak of her strength, but not now, especially since a weak point of hers had been revealed. But assassination should be devoid of emotion and thus efficient and clean. Right now, he wasn't certain what exactly would have colored his judgment from this confused swirl, but it wouldn't have been an impartial decision.

Nothing made sense anymore, which meant that removing her from the equation – ushering her away and into the waiting grubby arms of a human who could give her all that she deserved at a petty cost – was the easiest step.

Perhaps twice as much now that those damned robes were finally doing her some semblance of justice.

"You would have gotten out quite well on your own… thought not as stylishly, perhaps." Especially when she allowed herself to be pulled to her feet without resistance. The mage looked paler and younger with this brown hair the water had given her, which was quite something to see. "It looks like this was once a passage through to another part of the ruins, but got flooded throughout the years. There are probably holes in the stonework… it is hardly inconceivable that water should get through."

"This might be a problem, if there aren't any other entrances… no, there must be a way." The Warden was returning, her stride purposeful and studious. If she was at all surprised that Zevran hadn't chosen to pretend to be taking advantage of the situation in any way, it was overridden by the mildest embarrassment. "Surely they wouldn't have kept it to just one tunnel…"

The assassin suddenly understood why she had struck such an easy and open friendship with Morrigan; the swamp witch was perhaps the only one for whom she didn't have to pretend anything. The dark woman had no expectations of her, no need of a hero to save her or an icon to worship. And, in turn, nothing the elf would have cared for from her could be secured by pretense.

Why, if either of the women knew how to appreciate one another's beauty properly, it was likely that the future heir apparent would have died of shock months ago. It was a thought entertaining enough to allow Zevran to offer the just-arrived Wynne a sufficiently believable heated look.

The Senior Enchanter had apparently trained herself to look anywhere but at him as long as she could, so the one that actually noticed was the apparently-healed warhound. Life was cruel like that sometimes.

"It falls to me to be the bearer of bad news, then." As usual, it took her a while longer to notice the obvious; though how anyone could ignore the drops of water trailing down her throat and under the neckline of Nimue's robes, Zevran would never understand. "Nimue, what has happened to you?"

"Just a small swim, nothing to be worried about." The mage was almost waiting for any kind of comfort she might be offered, but wasn't surprised when none came. Her expectations had been pushed quite low on that account, so she simply motioned to the nearby body of water. "One that all of us will apparently need to take."

The warhound had immediately taken to sniffing around, especially near the sarcophagi that littered this part of the ruins. Zevran kept an eye on him, if only to keep the animal from making his opinion of this plan known via relieving himself in the water they had yet to swim in.

Wynne, for her part, took one glance at the dark and deep water, another at the decidedly heavy and non-rot-and-rust resistant weapons and armor her two companions were carrying around (here Zevran saw it fit to throw her a small saucy wink, since this was the closest she was likely to come to blatantly _checking someone out_ – he wouldn't let that slide later on) and made her opinion known.

"You cannot be serious about this." It would seem she was accusing them both of this foolhardy plan, for once. Perhaps she thought her perfect little mage apprentice couldn't think of something so stubbornly stupid.

Her expression when Nimue's resolution didn't waver was an amusing shade of puce.

"Come now, Wynne, surely this apprehension is unnecessary." Fortunately, Zevran knew how to divert an argument before it could start, even one between mages. All it required was some physical proximity, a well-placed smile just dancing on the edge of a leer and an ageless topic suitable for all situations involving whatever the world could throw at you. "I have every confidence in the ability of your bosom to remain firm and marvelous despite some soggy robes. In fact, it might even help some more." he added after a meaningful glance, his leer brightening.

Wynne must have been intimate with a templar once, at least, because her mastery of their clench-jawed poker-faces was remarkable. She even managed to usher the remnants of color from her cheeks away. But Nimue compensated for that quite easily, finally looking down at the state of her attire, and, her face now matching Leliana's hair, tried to be discreet about readjusting her neckline to be somewhat more modest.

It wasn't working.

"I was considering offering a spell to help you breathe throughout the swimming, but I see that you have more than enough hot air to go around."

"Mm, perhaps you are right." Such fire was wasted on anger and Zevran was a little bored by it at this point. Especially when there was another target against which he had to test himself again, considering the circumstances. "After all, my dear, if swimming isn't one of your many talents, you will need someone to provide you with mouth-to-mouth once we resurface…"

"Or we could always turn into toads to get through." Nimue countered as she gave up on the robes, the wall that was the Warden once more firm in her eyes. She was realizing that she had perhaps shown too much – but not yet seeing that he, too, was attempting to restore some semblance of their usual routine.

The toad question never failed to bring non-mages to a halt. Especially when it had been explained before only with coy evasiveness.

"That is just a myth… yes? You cannot actually do that, else you would have done so already."

"I think I should go first." Yes, marvelous idea; let the one person in the group who most certainly cannot swim to save their life back into the water to do the exploration. But it seemed that the elf was serious, not merely evasive; she sat down at the edge of the pool, allowing her legs to submerge. She really intended to go through with this, joking or not. "If I'm not back in five minutes, you'd better get the reviving spells ready."

"Drowning in a forgotten ruin will hardly help stop the Blight, my dear." That was a polite way of reminding her what had happened minutes previously, how frightened she had been and how…

Zevran decidedly didn't need to be remembering that, because it wasn't constructive for rational thinking.

"True, but using the right kind of magic might." She had finally remembered what panic had blinded her to; that she was a mage and the elements were thus at her command. Theoretically, she could have gotten the water out of there somehow – by making it evaporate or simply removing it. But they were running short on time and there were easier ways. "I'll try to transform into something that can swim. If I can't move well, push me in once I'm done." she added, still a bit uncertain.

Well, if it came to the worst, she had already humiliated herself once for the day, so what was an encore of the same performance now?

"Morrigan's magic?" Wynne's words stopped her before she could begin her transformation. That she didn't approve of the maleficar traveling with them was common knowledge, as was her disdain for blood magic, but she hadn't yet so openly spoken against the shapeshifting Nimue had painstakingly learned from Morrigan at the cost of much time and effort. The elf was actually surprised to see this reaction. "You know I'm not comfortable with you learning those macabre talents of hers."

Outside the ruin, in the company of others, Nimue would likely have sat down and argued this out, explaining things in a matter that would have the swamp witch rolling her eyes for hours. And while Morrigan herself at times disapproved of the "soft" decisions the elven mage made, she went along with them as long as they got the job done.

But briefly, quicker than most eyes could see, the younger mage lowered her gaze and raised it once more, remembering the instant when all pretense had failed and she hadn't been abandoned despite that.

She didn't need constant approval for every decision she made. They had chosen her to lead (_forced her into it_, the one thing she hated most of all about this whole arrangement) and so they would do sodding well to respect her decisions, as long as she did her job.

Grey Wardens weren't heroes. Grey Wardens weren't protectors. Grey Wardens weren't perfect.

She was a Grey Warden. And so she was allowed to be as the Maker or whatever deity was applicable had made her.

"I'm sorry you feel that way." she said, giving her words the emptiness people appeared to expect from her heart, and dove into the water.

It was just the three of them, then.

"Such harsh criticism from you, Wynne?" Tsk, tsk, tsk. Normally, this was unheard of, as their wonderful Warden was a champion at wasting time with diplomacy when a single sword swipe would be sufficient. "I am most surprised, after how you have been championing the dear girl until now."

"Don't even start." Now that was unkind, but Zevran played along. It was not often nowadays that Wynne chose to resist so adamantly. "I understand it was too much to hope that you had come to your senses, but I am far too weary to argue with you."

"I assure you, I am in full possession of all my senses. Perhaps the same cannot be said for you – might I offer my expertise on helping you make certain of that? I promise to be _most_ thorough."

Wynne didn't even try to look disgusted this time; it was no fun when she didn't make an effort to be scandalized. Not that a woman of her age and beauty should be, anyway. "I'll never understand what she sees in you. But if you feel the slightest scrap of affection for her-"

"Blackmail from such an innocent creature as yourself? What is the world coming to?" A lecture, it seemed. How positively marvelous.

The mage had obviously taken some lessons from Nimue in the art of making one's eyes steely at will. "Could you be serious for a single moment?"

Very well, then, if she wanted seriousness, he had a question of his own – similar to the one he had posed to Leliana, actually.

"I have been wondering if you are still so supportive of this marriage you so easily consider the best alternative for our beautiful Warden." After all, who else could the bard have come to for support of her case? The elf still took Wynne's advice, even if she ignored it at times. "That delightful apprentice of yours reminded you of something else, didn't he?"

"I'm aware of Nimue's opinions regarding the tower, even if I disagree with them. But she is a Grey Warden, of the utmost importance."

"Your point being?"

"If she is to stop the Blight, she cannot afford distractions." Wynne raised her eyebrows, as if to emphasize her point. She was apparently surprised to even have to explain this. "You are nothing if not a distraction."

"You must have stopped many Blights yourself to speak with such wisdom." Idle wonderings, but Zevran wasn't nearly as uninterested in this opinion when he leaned against the nearest wall, idly watching the mabari hound dig around through the dirt for a moment. It confirmed one of his theories about the elderly mage. "How utterly despicable of me to think of her as a woman and not a Warden. Scandalous."

If sarcasm meant anything to Wynne, she glossed over that for now. "It is dangerous, for both of you."

Because she knew _so much_ about him, and about Nimue too, for that matter.

"That is simply part of the fun." In front of her, he could shrug easily. When her blue eyes looked, they didn't _see_, and so there was absolutely no need to be concerned or moved or swayed. "Have no fear, my dear Wynne. As lithe and firm as my sweet desire is, none can take your soft bosom's place in my heart."

His _sweet desire_ surfaced from the water more gracefully this time, but still practically swatted her arms around uselessly before the mabari spotted her and fished her out of the water before Zevran could make a move; and this time, he made a point of not trying.

"Ow, thank you, Rabbit. The way is clear, so it seems we can get through."

"What if it just leads to another dead end and we have to backtrack?" Wynne was now intent on ignoring the brief chat they had had and the assassin had absolutely no intention of disturbing this little plan. After all, what use was this useless arguing in the face of soaked robes their owner no longer thought to readjust.

Especially if Wynne herself was to be subjected to the same fate moments later.

"I don't really think we have much of an alternative. Besides, I hardly know the layout of this place, so we might as well take our chances."

Now there was a sound argument, a voice of reason amidst this useless talk about love and duty and attachment that was really making his teeth itch. With his most practiced and widest smile, Zevran helped the Warden to her feet, the one thing her warhound couldn't accomplish.

"Ah, my marvelous mermaid, you know you need not beg me to plunge into your deep, moist cavern of wonders."

And it was a wonder that steam didn't start rising from Nimue's hair, because payback was just as satisfying as seeing their proud Warden momentarily crumble.


	15. Regrouping Ever After

Exams are over, thank goodness, and I finally have some time to devote to writing, aside from packing up my stuff and getting ready for some summer work. Part of this chapter was written quite a while ago, but I didn't really know where I wanted to take it at first. Hopefully, the next chapter will come sooner, but I can hardly promise anything.

Also, it was my birthday this weekend, so I really had other things on my mind.

Leliana is actually one of my least favorite party members. I don't really know why; I guess I just can't relate to her as much as I can to the others – but that means that all of the characters are awesome on different levels, because she's still a good character and interesting in her own way. It's just difficult to out-awesome characters like Shale or Sten.

Hope this makes up for the long wait – also, check out Samsara, my latest DA fanfic, which deals with Anders' life in and escapes from the Tower and his evolving relationship with Surana. Possibly Nimue, maybe another character; I haven't decided yet.

**o.O.o**

**Regrouping Ever After**

**o.O.o**

The odd thing about staying at the Dalish camp was that one felt simultaneously more and less welcome as time passed. Despite her best efforts, Leliana felt it just the same; the humans of their group were at best tolerated here, and even that was a stretch. Were the atmosphere a little different, the bard might have tried to breach the ice with song, but this ice was much too thick for simple music to chip.

That is, she didn't really think that playing most of the songs she knew – human songs – would go over well with the Dalish. And from some of the throwaway snippets of information a few conversations had given her, she didn't think playing the few elven songs she knew would go over much better.

Curiously, the elves seemed to react best to Morrigan and Shale, out of all the people invading their camp. The swamp witch wore clothing that was much more tattered than the ancient but functional armor adorning most of the elves and made absolutely no effort to speak to anyone, let alone stop glaring at those who dared venture too close.

Something the elves could relate to, apparently.

It was pretty much the same with Shale, except the elves either knew a bit about how golems were made or were simply grateful for someone who squashed any bird that dared venture close to their food supplies. Perhaps a combination of both.

Understandable though the attitude was, Leliana was really not comforted by the situation. The Blight was the only thing even vaguely bringing all these people together. Were it not for the Blight, even all of them would be still trapped in their own pasts – her including. It wasn't a particularly kind thought, to be thankful for the Blight, but the bard simply trusted in the Maker that all this was part of a divine plan.

And, hopefully, the plan would involve just rewards for the heroes of the tale. Besides, if she herself could help with this part of the proceedings, she had no qualm about doing her part.

"'Tis foolishness that you plan and childish at that." a stern voice disapproved from nearby.

It wasn't often that Morrigan attempted to converse with someone other than Nimue, at least not without a deriding purpose. This seemed to be one of those rare occasions; never let it be said that the swamp witch was a shrinking violet unable to voice her opinion (read: disapproval) clearly.

If the tone of voice hadn't tipped her off, then the folded arms and slanted eyebrows facing her certainly told Leliana everything she needed to know.

"I'm sorry?" Politeness usually either irritated or stunned Morrigan (the latter less so nowadays), but in defense of the question, she hadn't given quite enough information about what was so foolish according to her personal judgment.

"Do you need your own mischief spelled out by another?" In Leliana's defense, the maleficar disapproved of practically everything her companions did for some reason or another, no matter what their motivation. "You waste time trying to chain Nimue to that nobleman."

Leliana stopped trying to tune her lute, a little surprised by this direct accusation. Not by Morrigan's bluntness, but by her apparent interest in a topic the witch was more than likely to consider frivolous.

"I wasn't trying to get them together – they did that on their own, no?" She hadn't actually done anything, of course, meaning that she was getting a little sloppy. Not that Morrigan was ignorant in any way, but if a non-involved person could notice her intentions so quickly. "And that kiss… they seem to like each other quite well. I am simply helping, in my own way."

The witch's upper lip curled; most people would glance upon stubborn stains on their favorite shirt that way, but then again, they dealt with bloodstains all the time. "Waste your own energy and time if you must, but know that 'tis a pointless endeavor."

"Why do you think so?"

"Neither you nor that man have any idea of magic, nor what being a mage entails." This was the true surprise; that Morrigan actually stayed to endeavor to explain her thoughts. "What a mage might want or need. And that is just the start of your problems."

"Not to the degree you or Nimue might, but I am certain love and patience can overcome that obstacle." Of the latter, Nimue had an abundance, considering she had managed to hold them together without threats or killings to make a point so far. The former could be given easily. "I believe both can blossom on this fertile ground. It is something to take joy from."

To resist a snort would have taken superhuman effort; the witch didn't even bother trying. "A Circle mage is like a caged beast. 'Tis why they bring them young – so they can be tamed and accept their shackles by force of habit."

"She isn't like that."

But Leliana couldn't say that with as much confidence as she would have liked. She remembered the quickness with which the templars had called for annulment. Especially etched in her memory was the first moment when she had seen Nimue truly angry; she had yelled at the Knight Commander without any restraint, with what was apparently years of pent up frustration from not being able to do this before spilling out.

Having seen the faces of the frightened mage children, Leliana's opinion of some of the chantry's regulations had dropped considerably.

A mage that had escaped their mousetrap was like a fleeing rat – not easily trusting, certainly not willing to be drawn into danger again. At least, this seemed to be Morrigan's take on the situation, even if Nimue's escape hadn't been willing.

"No one in this travelling circus is anything like they pretend to be. This includes you and her." And Morrigan herself, of course. As elated as the swamp witch seemed to be able to find what she considered intelligent conversation, she had little to no obvious reasons for remaining with them still. Nimue never truly asked, but the others certainly wondered. "Have a care where your nets spread, lest they tangle."

But this development was pleasing, in a way that the witch herself perhaps didn't anticipate.

"You are concerned for her." Leliana smiled, "You are her friend, just as I hope to be."

"I do not think we speak the same language when such things are mentioned." the maleficar snapped, finally giving up on the conversation she herself had instigated. "'Tis no matter. A single warning is all anyone is likely to get before a cornered animal bites."

She would know about that, wouldn't she, Leliana thought, but said nothing of the kind. Angering Morrigan was never advisable, even under the best of circumstances, it would be downright foolish after seeing the witch storm off.

However, she had been right about one thing; non-mages would always be lying a bit if they claimed to understand magic or its practitioners. The bard didn't want that; she wanted to understand the person, not the power behind them. And, in a way, this was one means of getting closer beneath the surface; kindness could grant more paths than a closed fist.

Though there was constant movement in the camp, if there was anything that could easily draw Leliana's attention, it was the sight of an elf actually willingly approaching someone other than one of their own elves.

She hadn't yet seen that particular elf around, especially with his long red hair and well-made armor that made him immediately noticeable. Moreover, every single elf around seemed both surprised and highly pleased to see him; he might not be part of the tribe on a permanent basis, then, Leliana speculated, but she couldn't really say. What was most eye-catching, however, was that he immediately pinpointed Alistair, effortlessly approached him and – much to the surprise of everyone around, their princeling including – struck up a quick conversation with him.

However, the young templar went from near-astonishment to rapt attention within the span of a few words, apparently, which could only have meant that this was a messenger from their group in the woods. Morrigan, not too far away, had already apparently picked up on that message, her feline eyes darting from the elf to Alistair, as if uncertain which one to dislike more. Or, possibly, she was simply offended by the fact that Nimue seemed to have chosen the templar as her possible substitute in their moment of need. Perhaps it was Wynne who had suggested this – the bard honestly doubted Zevran would have done so other than as a jest – but she supposed it was an understandable choice.

This was nevertheless going to be a fun ride.

Feeling a little kind, a little nosy and very impatient to actually do something, the bard easily snuck closer to the conversation. If it were just up to Alistair, it would probably take long for a decision to be reached. Anything she could do to speed it up could only be an improvement on the long run.

"…ey would like your support, if at all possible."

Once more, observation alone had given the bard a good idea of what was happening. It was indeed Nimue calling for backup, which meant they should get to where they needed quickly. Alistair seemed just a little apprehensive and hesitant about what to do. In the spirit of getting somewhere, Leliana decided to make her presence a little more visible, in case their surrogate leader needed some support.

"Where exactly are they?"

"Tevinter ruins, not that far away from here." The elf – possibly Aneirin, the bard realized when she remembered that particular trouble Wynne had laid on them – very easily shifted his attention to her, emitting an aura of sadness that his mannerisms didn't really reflect. It was a refreshing change from having to coax answers out of reluctant Dalish. "I can lead you through the forest, but you will have to hurry. Your friends have been inside for a few hours now and if the ruins are the lair of those creatures…"

"Right!" Alistair never really had the air of natural leadership about him, but the summons from Nimue were obviously quite enough for him to make a decent effort at appearing commanding, even if it was obviously an act. He could grow to be a good leader and king, though. "We should tell- ah, Lady Lanaya, is it?"

"You best not use human titles here." Hopefully, it was indeed Aneirin, and Wynne had received the absolution she so craved from possibly the single wrong she might have committed during her long years as a teacher. If it was him, the chances of that were considerable. "The others might think ill of you."

"Oh. Uh, right." Obviously, the idea that Nimue might be in danger and requiring help was weighing heavily on Alistair's ability to focus on formalities; likely, he would have just eagerly rushed off to her aid, were it up to him alone. He didn't look too far from that course of action, in any case. "We will try to go see if we can help Nimue and the others; they appear to have found the main lair of the werewolves. Um, where is the Keeper?" he asked, apparently uncomfortable with just dashing off without telling someone, at least.

Leliana, already a bit quicker on the uptake, easily went to the First – technically the current leader of the settlement – and repeated the very same question to her.

"Zathrian left camp a little while ago, I believe. I don't know where he went; he often makes such trips without mentioning what his destination may be. Perhaps he, too, went to assist your companions." Lanaya added, shrugging speculatively. "If so, haste would not be ill-advised."

"I was thinking the same thing. Everyone!" When he got the looks his exclamation should have received, Alistair actually withdrew a little, apparently stunned by the fact that people actually responded to his call. But, true to his own blood, he didn't recoil entirely and didn't need further prodding to stand up and speak. "Ah, we got news about Nimue's group and they might need backup. So… we should head to where they are. To see if we can help."

The future king of Ferelden had stage fright of a sort. He still had a long way to go, Leliana thought with a private smile. Of course, it took a scowl and scoff to rile him up again and bring a defiant stare into his eyes. For a moment, when facing down the predictable opponent – Morrigan – the templar was gone and the long-suppressed human prince appeared.

"Waste hours trekking through the uncharted forest to search for a vaguely-specified location where all might be over by the time we arrive." How the witch could pull off such an ugly sneer and yet remain the pinnacle of icy beauty, Leliana would never know, but she'd certainly be open to taking tips from her. Not on her fashion sense, though. That was still as strategically tattered as ever. "Truly, this is a plan of strategic brilliance."

"Waiting here will not help either and we have a guide. Besides, I'd have expected you to be overjoyed with the prospect of a possible swamp along the way."

"If we can get there quickly, we might be able to catch up with them." Leliana added, eager to get away from the camp for a little while and possibly talk to Aneirin some more. "Tevinter ruins are usually vast and likely filled with traps; it might take Nimue and the others a while to navigate their way through, but our path should be easier once they find it. That is, if you know a fast path there."

"We should divide our forces. Leave the slower and the useless behind." Sten was already on his feet, armored and prepared to leave. Actually, it was doubtful he had even gotten to sitting down, hoping to obviously get out of there as soon as possible. Or perhaps he simply thought the elves were too useless and the group would just move on soon enough.

They themselves were annoying, but competent. The elves were both annoying and helpless to defend themselves from the werewolf attacks, thus seemingly useless as anything else than cannon fodder. The bard would bet that the qunari would be much more benevolent if there was a kitten around or if the elves had a master of the mystical art of cookie making in their midst. They would still be annoying and useless in battle, but not useless overall.

Surprisingly, this statement managed to wake Oghren from his stupor (after realizing that the Dalish had very little alcohol around, the dwarf had drunk most of his own collection to drown this sad fact out). It was kind of like calling a small child chicken, considering the great feat of acrobatics the intoxicated warrior, which he certainly wouldn't have managed in a state of sobriety.

"'ey! The golem ain't useless!" Not that there was any danger of that happening, mind you. "We've got stuff to carry an' you nug-humpers sure don't look like volunteering for the job!"

That Shale didn't crush the dwarf where he stood was very surprising to most of them – the only other creature who knew why this didn't happen was Rabbit, who was far away now. And Oghren, possibly, if he could gather his own thoughts.

But Sten, having been given reason to leave the camp, wasn't about to let their regular argument routine get into the way of it. Considering that the qunari could draw that gigantic sword most menacingly without trying too much, no one was about to protest. That, and Shale had a soft spot for the dark-skinned giant, if Leliana remembered correctly.

"It is likely that a force of the beasts will return to destroy the elves if we tarry." Not that Sten seemed overly concerned with that – he might as well have been commenting on the weather. "I don't trust them not to stab themselves with their own knives, but the Warden needs an army."

"I understand its point." Plus, there were more birds coming; some of the younger elves were apparently fond of feeding the smaller ones, which obviously meant they deserved any fate they would have. "I am not much for stealthy assaults. And the amount of bird nests these trees must contain!" If golems could shudder, Shale certainly made a good effort at doing so. "Disgusting. I will stay and watch the squishies… though I cannot vouch for the dwarf."

Oghren, already losing to his liquor-induced stupor once again, simply muttered something incomprehensible from his spot on the ground. Somehow, the others doubted they were missing out on spiritual enlightenment, though what elves were around didn't look too happy with the prospect of keeping the dwarf around even in a state of unconsciousness.

"Well, uh, thank you." Alistair added weakly, giving up on his current attempt to reassert any kind of authority. Being an announcer rather than being a leader was quite fine with him. Of course, Nimue didn't really need to know that, considering that she apparently had faith in him becoming a leader. "Well done, Sten. So the rest of us will go with Aenerin and find Nimue-"

"Yes, do try to act as if you have the ability to lead us, Alistair."

"I prefer to follow, but I've done this before just fine."

"I have the _utmost _confidence in your wealth of experience in commanding dolls."

"Hey! They're not dolls, they're statuettes!"

Leliana thought she might have to mediate again – she was the logical choice in such moments when Nimue wasn't around, having once been somewhat like Morrigan and now gravitating more towards Alistair's worldview, even if she remained rather in-between. But she needn't have bothered in this case; apparently, being the object of wonder for several of the elven children was more annoying than most would think, as Sten wasted no time giving them both a practically motionless look that was both a sharp, silencing glare and an eye-roll.

"Parsheera. If you don't hurry, you will stay here with the elves."

That was truly a feat to admire and study by anyone who had ever tried to look intimidating and failed spectacularly. Leliana could sympathize.

"Come on, Alistair." She didn't mean to be unkind, but there would be much more of these pointless arguments if they didn't hurry. Thus the bard let one further stab go, just this once. "We can't wait for you to think of a sufficiently witty retort!"

Were he a worse man, the templar might have cursed out loud; with his disposition, he stuck to muttering a few well-chosen grumbles, as if all this could only ever happen to him. Which was true, in a fashion, considering that not even his revealed heritage was enough to intimidate or even awe anyone any longer. He was still Alistair, a nobody in his own eyes, and perfectly content to remain the same way for an unspecified amount of time.

However, there would be retribution later for the wretched doll remark. He might allow himself to be insulted, but when it came to his statuettes, every word was sacred.

Shale watched the squishies scamper off without too many regrets. Between the enchantress and the qunari, they would be all right. They had to be, with the swamp witch's fingers obviously just twitching to set something on fire and the qunari obviously feeling quite out of place among the elves.

Not that Shale could blame it, really; between the drunken dwarf and the barely-armored elves (hadn't their armor smiths ever heard about protecting the squishiest parts of their bodies instead of showing them off?), the golem was forced to wonder which of the two would be more useless in battle.

It was a tough call, actually. In the end, she had to go with the birds. Their persistence was winning out, much to the golem's chagrin.

In any case, the bald elf's apprentice didn't seem too keen on organizing any potential resistance against another wave of werewolf attacks, which struck Shale as not too sensible. Certainly, the enchantress and the others could dispose of the core of the werewolf pack, but the beasts knew the forest well, were fast and strong and could return at any moment. Yet no preparations were made, aside from trying to stop those already-sick from getting progressively worse.

Honestly, one of the elves was apparently still fretting about its squishy mate not accepting it. While that was disgusting at the best of times, it was downright illogical in this case. The enchantress had to be some special breed of elf, because these Dalish were completely useless when it came to reality.

"It seems suspicious to me that its protector would leave in the time of crisis." Shale remarked conversationally after Lanaya managed to take her teacher's place for the time being.

"Zathrian is wiser than any of us." If the apprentice was nervous about talking with a golem, it was hiding it relatively well. It seemed relatively reasonable, at least for a creature of flesh. "He has lived for centuries, seen almost every situation a person could experience. I'm certain he wouldn't do anything to hinder your companions in any way."

Indeed; instead, he chose to bravely abandon them in their hour of need.

"But it has not attempted to help either, not even by watching its own people." Shale pointed out. Truth to be told, she was rather surprised that she hadn't seen the bald elf vanish. "It took off into the forest after seeing the enchantress enter. Isn't it suspicious at all?"

Lanaya swallowed and pondered this for a moment, but then reaffirmed her own faith. "Yes. Yes, it is. But I trust the Keeper. He understands our needs and the nature of our situation better than anyone. He has never let us astray; he will not do so now."

As he was not around to lead them at all, Shale had no doubt about that. If all elves – or male ones, at least – were like this, though, then perhaps she understood why the enchantress was relatively resistant to the painted elf's peculiar attempts at courtship. It almost made sense to the golem for a moment, but then it all came crashing down once again. Certainly, making a golem involved agony beyond imagination, but it had to be better than this fleshy means of reproduction. At least it was quick and difficult to remember; whereas here, every excruciating second ticked on forever.

Suddenly, not being present for the courtship ritual itself seemed far more courteous of the hound noble than anything these insane humans and elves would do.

Out of boredom, frustration and the need to direct her distaste, Shale squished a nearby sparrow, earning several confused glances from the elves that vanished as quickly as they came once they saw the remains of the bird. If the possibility of losing her bet with the hound and the drunken dwarf existed, she might as well give herself the reward she had wanted in advance to save herself the trouble of feinting any conflicted satisfaction later on.


	16. Ever After Out Of Ruin

Long time no update, for which I apologize. This fic will get finished, but with college starting again in a little while, it might take some time. Hopefully, the next chapter will be quicker in coming. The romance poll is still open to your votes, so feel free to chime in who you'd like to win the little contest. Of course, I might decide on something else entirely, but I promise to take the votes into account when I decide on the outcome. This chapter borrows from Fracture a bit, plus focuses on the so far neglected characters. The betters will return in the next chapter, since Rabbit is with Nimue and Oghren is currently passed out.

Also, check out Samsara, my other DA fic, which deals with the lives of Anders and Surana (possibly Nimue, haven't decided yet) before the Grey Wardens. Contains hijinks, rivalries, friendships and a healthy amount of snarking.

**o.O.o**

**Ever After Out Of Ruin**

**o.O.o**

Of course, even with a guide, it took them several hours to actually get to the place where Nimue and the others were supposedly to be found. It was neither a pleasant nor worthwhile trek, as the others seemed to not grasp the crucial point of the situation – that, very likely, any assistance they could provide was going to come far, far too late to make any sort of difference. Still, Morrigan went along, if only to observe the misguided attempts at leadership their other Warden was going to try.

It had to be better than anything that she could watch or do at the Dalish camp. Her expectations for the elves hadn't been really high, but their truly decrepit state hadn't served to assuage her doubts in any way. Despite disapproving of the various things people like Wynne and Leliana encouraged their Wardens to do in order to kiss up to their potential troops, Morrigan was quite aware that gathering an army was necessary to break through the horde. After all, it served no one's purpose if any semi-strong ogre killed either of the current Wardens, not even hers. Still, part of her couldn't help but wonder why those they sought aid for always had to be pathetic shadows in need of much more aid that they actually requested.

The witch wouldn't shed any tears if the majority of them gave their lives against the Blight and wished to be gone from their presence as soon as possible. And she didn't much doubt that underneath her pretty façade of acceptance and hope, Nimue too had lost her illusion of actually belonging among any of these pathetic creatures. Were it at all possible, she might have considered asking the woman for company on her long journey – partly to give her an alternative to the foolish options she had been presented with, as she owed her that much. And partly because the swamp witch herself had discovered that the proper kind of companionship need not be cause for disgust or boredom.

Of course these things would never be. But it was a shame that this alternative couldn't even be considered.

Perhaps it was arrogance, but the witch honestly believed that she knew Nimue best, out of all the misfits the elf had managed to gather on her quest. Even upon first being forced into her company by her own mother, the elf had seemed much more interesting and formidable than that fool of a templar clinging to her. Morrigan had wondered not once why Flemeth had chosen to spare the woman as well, despite knowing that she could never be used for their ritual. But as time passed, she came to understand that her mother could read more from a few sentences than she from entire conversations. Flemeth had seen through both of these creatures during their first encounter and made certain that the ritual would happen, eventually.

Because there had been no answer to her question what Alistair would do if faced with the choice of stopping the Blight or saving Nimue.

The elf had little idea of that, of course. That was beside the point. But it was a useful thing to know that the one Warden who could serve as the vessel through which the Old God would be reborn was so weak. This was but one reason why Leliana's petty machinations were an irritation. Morrigan herself had done her part to keep the question of who their leader would perhaps commit to open, if only through small vilifications. But maintaining the trust and even the unrequited feelings between her and Alistair was something only Nimue herself could do.

She was succeeding admirably on that account, if only pure to small kindnesses, so Morrigan was willing to bear with Nimue's insufferable unwillingness to use her power to gain her goals more easily. She did see the potential for hardening the other woman somewhere along the way. How surprised had the others been when she had lost her temper with the Knight-Commander of the templars. When she had refused to speak with Alistiar afterwards for suggesting they annul the Circle. When she treated the Urn of Sacred Ashes like an ordinary pot and sighed irritably when others showed reverence.

She would suffer if she ever managed to find it in her heart what any of her suitors sought from her.

The ruins they finally reached appeared Tevinter, though the thick foliage covering every other inch of it made it difficult to judge. Had such things interested Morrigan, she might have been excited about finding something of Tevinter make within the building. However, she was no naïve child to think anything of value wouldn't have been carried away by scavangers or destroyed by these werewolves the Dalish so feared. With a quick glance she determined easily that Alistair now looked grimmer than ever, yet there was a strange keenness in him – most likely to prove himself and manage to save Nimue this time.

Given the loud crackling of magic in the air she sensed the moment they entered the place, that might not have been entirely as foolish as one supposed. Blood magic hung in the air, a coppery scent that most predators would easily recognize, coupled with the stink of wolf and ugly desperation. Something ancient that had long festered, clinging to life much beyond its natural longevity.

It wasn't that surprising when it turned out to be a bunch of haggard, filthy humans. The surprise came in the form of a cry from Leliana, and the bard rushing immediately to the side of a seated Nimue, who looked a little green. Given that there were corpses of various creatures littering the place (though, curiously, barely any werewolves) this wasn't entirely surprising.

"So we came all this way through the rubble for naught?" the witch crossed her arms, glancing at the dead elf on the ground as she stepped over the remains of a sylvan. Hopefully, the remaining elves wouldn't want to keep their own as a new shepherd. "Brilliant plan as always."

"I didn't see you questioning it too much, you know." Wynne and Zevran were giving some brief explanation to those that would listen, but Alistair saw only one thing. "Nimue, you're injured!"

"Your uncanny skills of observation never cease to amaze me, templar." Morrigan wasn't entirely certain if she said it out loud or if that was Sten, given the timing. In any case, she was forced to idly wonder if there was yet any chance of making the qunari into a Warden and what the chance of his survival might be… but she put that idea out of her mind. She was by now resigned to the idea of having her child share some part of the dim-witted fool.

She could only hope that her kind of upbringing would wipe any visible trace of it.

Nimue's robes were torn in various places, with splotches of blood decorating it in various inconvenient places. What really drew the eyes, though, was the darkening swelling on her now-bare calf. No wonder the elf was clinging to the wall as if it might come down without her support. She looked ready to either sink to the ground or be involuntarily relieved of her last meal – either was possible at this point.

Immediately, Leliana and Alistair were by her side, with the same nonsense, attempting to support her weight by her arms and help her to a seat. One would expect that the bard, at least, would be quick enough to notice that the mage went a little cross-eyed, stumbled out of their would-be-embraces, winced when she used her injured leg and ended up kneeling on the floor. Then, the pain overriding her senses, she finally abandoned her lunch in the remains of a broken-down sarcophagus.

It was positively the lowest point of Nimue's rickety Warden career.

The enormous mabari warhound whimpered at her side, attempting to lick her face or provide comfort by some other means, but for once, the elf ignored it completely. The very effort of turning around to sit normally apparently cost her far more strength than the rapid dive for the rubble had done.

By that time, however, Wynne was at her side, looking somewhat worse for the wear herself. Out of the three of them (four, if they counted the dog), Zevran was paradoxly the one who looked more or less unharmed. He was also taking near meticulous care in wiping off is blades on the late Keeper's robes without staining his armor too much. Given the amount of blood in need of removing, this was not the easy task it sounded like.

"Let me see that, dear." Whatever her manipulativeness, the old woman could pull off a reassuring grandmotherly voice when the situation called for it. She also did her best to steadfastly ignore the rapid color changes of Nimue's face. "Straighten your leg, if you can."

"That kind of hurts. Ow!" the elf added, wincing to illustrate her point. The nearby dog whimpered and nuzzled her arm as gently as such a creature could.

Painkillers or any kind of numbing drugs were not part of a healer's arsenal, though, as the elf looked ready to rid her body of more contents, possibly even a few vital organs.

Out of misguided sentiment, Leliana dropped her bow nearby and went to take the elf's cooling hand in her own.

Wynne pursed her lips, scowling at the injury. "Your calf bone is fractured." she announced, not even glancing away from her target, as if a glare alone could make the injury go away. "The other minor injuries, I can easily heal, but you will need rest. It would be preferable to return to the elven encampment as soon as possible."

"We're hours away from the Dalish camp." Alistair pointed out uselessly as the blue light of healing surrounded Wynne's palms and the injury. "Won't it be more difficult if you wait?"

"A few hours won't make it heal wrongly. Leliana, please see if we can get something to bind the leg properly." The spirit healer continued her careful attempts to bring Nimue close to hurling once more without giving her such release. "Try cutting off some of those branches." Wynne added, nodding towards the deceased tree spirits.

The bard drew one of her daggers to cut the wood, but Sten was way ahead of her. He managed to tear off an appropriate length of wood without chipping his sword in the progress and cut a long stream of fabric from Zathrian's robe. Morrigan supposed correctly that he was murmuring something unflattering about magic in the language of his land. Still, whatever his distrust towards magic, he didn't shove Wynne away or demand that she stop her healing.

The qunari himself was apparently relatively skilled in in-the-field improvised healing. The Warden grimaced more than a few times, but the magic was apparently enough to keep her mostly quiet. The makeshift bandage was tight. Wynne looked just a little disapproving and yet glad for the distraction. Leliana watched the proceedings curiously and then shooed Alistair over to help her raise Nimue to her feet. Like an afterthought, the bard fetched Zathrian's discarded staff to temporarily serve as what it was to any person not endowed with the singular gift of magic; a walking stick.

After a mere moment, it became obvious that this was no more than a temporary solution. The mage's hands were sliding down the staff, sweaty and uncertain. "I don't think I can manage those stairs very well." she said, wobbling a little on the spot.

Sickeningly, Alistair was at her side in an instant, and Morrigan had to hide a sneer at the way the woman who was a few bad days away from agreeing that sometimes the threat of a fireball to the face was the best way of negotiating was being treated like a breakable doll by the very man who knew so little about her actual thoughts.

Nimue shrugged off the hold gently, holding onto the staff.

"Nimue, you are in no shape to walk through the forest." Alistair noted gently, but there was a little fear in him, a little fear that if he touched her again, she would continue rejecting the offer of comfort, of strength, of _him_. The Witch of the Wilds found it hilariously pathetic, reminiscent of the many men who had showered her with empty words of what they called love.

"It isn't that bad now." The decidedly greenish tinge to her pallid complexion said otherwise, but few tried to argue. "We need to tell the clan about… this." Nimue added lamely, gesturing all around her. "That the wolves are cured and Zathrian… thanks to Zathrian." she amended.

So the haggard creatures had taken a less fierce form and made their getaway, like rats, leaving their rescuer in such a state as if they themselves hadn't restrained their former claws. How fitting.

"A transformation might help now-"

Morrigan understood that these words were to be directed at her, so she saved the elf some breath. "'Twould be ill-advised to re-open your wound by transforming into an animal form. I would not advise it until your bones mend at least partially."

The elf looked ready to object and it seemed that Wynne, Alistair and even Leliana had counter-arguments ready for whatever she could come up with. Then, the Warden yelped and Morrigan found herself a touch surprised yet very grateful to the only other adult in the room for chasing off her impending migraine.

"Parshaara. We have wasted enough time on this foolishness already." The elf looked quite petite when Sten lifted her up like a box filled with glass products, though a touch more wide-eyed. The qunari had once more effortlessly taken the mantle of leadership away from Alistair, which wasn't nearly as impressive a feat as one might think. Nevertheless, it was getting them somewhere, apparently, because even Zevran finished his morbid task. "If these elves are as slow in battle as they are to solve their problems, we have only wasted our time."

The magic staff had long-since clunked to the ground, but Morrigan decided to take and keep it, for the time being. They had scavenged enough dead bodies to make a market of their new findings, and this thing actually showed some promise of either wealth or spellpower. The qunari was already moving towards the door with his only slightly protesting cargo, with Wynne trying to keep up with a put-upon sigh. That might have been due to the resumed proximity of the hound, though, relieved that his mistress was going to survive.

As there was clearly no being or item of worth left in the chamber, Morrigan resolutely turned away, doing her best to ignore the beginnings of a fool attempt to make an even bigger fool out of their resident holder of that title.

"I believe one of those sylvans has given me a splinter. You will have to carry me, Alistair."

A double-take from the templar. "What? No!"

"Such coldness! You will have to kiss it better, or I might take it personally."

Far ahead on the stairs, away from the scurrying templar, Wynne and Leliana were already forging a further step in their plots, petty or not.

"So what will we do now? With Zathrian dead, I imagine the clan will not be entirely happy with us."

"Lanaya seems reasonable enough, so we should be able to get along somehow." The old woman sighed heavily. "It might be better not to mention that we were the ones who battled the Keeper, or the true nature of the curse."

"But you weren't the one to kill him; he took his own life, no? That means you can speak to the Dalish with a clear conscience."

Morrigan ignored the needless, useless chatter. What was done was done, and it meant Nimue had chosen the elves. She caught up to the qunari and his cargo most easily, having a few words of her own. Aenerin waited for them outside to lead them back safely, so there was no need to wait or gather or debate. But one thing bothered the witch, and she felt it was her duty to mention it to Nimue.

"T'would have been more useful to utilize the might of the werewolves against the darkspawn." she remarked when Nimue was near enough to hear, without any interference from the people behind them. Sten she treated like part of the furniture this time, but the qunari likely preferred it that way, given how he was always trying to stop her questions with monosyllabic answers.

She offered no sympathy to Nimue's condition, which the elf seemed to secretly appreciate. Not forced to walk on her own anymore, she had regained most of her composure, though she still looked less than her best.

"I would prefer those we recruit to know which side we will be slaughtering." Nimue noted, sounding a little drowsy. "We have enough to contend with without cursed beasts."

"'Tis true, but you could have saved yourself that injury by simply slaughtering the lot." Morrigan noted dispassionately. She knew the markings of blood magic when she saw them, even half-healed as they were. This penchant for do-goodery would be the ruin of the woman, for certain. It was also one of the reasons she was certain she would opt to take her offer, however, so the witch wasn't going to complain too loudly.

"Think about it this way; without weapons, armor or guidance, their chances of escaping the forest spirits are rather slim." Nimue gave a tired smile at the witch's quiet laugh, assuaging the momentary disapproval she had earned.

**o.O.o**

Wynne's prediction of Lanaya being understanding to their predicament proved to be surprisingly true, and the Dalish actually began preparing for battle. She had then spent a good hour fixing Nimue's leg, and while the injury was now tied more tidily, it still ached a little. But their purpose had been achieved; the elves pledged their support more quickly than even the mages, and everyone gladly accepted the suggestion that they head back to Redcliffe to regroup. The morose atmosphere was starting to get to them all, apparently.

Nimue, forbidden from intruding in the packing, pored over Jowan's legacy – the small volume Connor had so quickly brought her. The journal contained old writings from the time in the Circle, notes and entries about much, including the ill-fated romance and his friendship with her. She and her oldest friend had long-since realized that in order to keep some degree of privacy, a code was necessary for their mutual notes, so that only they could read them. Even so, no actual names were used in the odd jumble of words that could implicate anyone or anything.

She realized quickly that she was the otter in the writings, and could easily guess who this precious red-haired butterfly that kept appearing later on was. Well, each to his own, she supposed, pitying the last few entries earnestly. She had loved Jowan in her own way, created in him a vision of a family she believed she could never, would never have. And then, when he had chosen to flee with his Chantry girl, she had agreed, not only because of his pleading, or because she thought it would be easy, but because she knew she would never gather the courage to do this on her own.

And she wanted to; she had dreamed of such a thing for years. Nimue abhorred the Chantry, not for its vigilance, but for its contempt. That they believed that magic made you less of a person than you could ever be… and, despite your power, you should be afraid of your every breath. That those that survived were merely lucky.

But Nimue didn't want to survive; she wanted to live in earnest, according to her own rules and principles. Hers was a somewhat distorted and naïve view of the world in many ways, but she was also pragmatic, aware of her own possibilities for survival in a world that wasn't too kind to mages. She dreamed of leaving Ferelden, avoiding Orlais and moving to a place that had a different attitude towards magic. Tevinter fascinated and repulsed her at the same time, but she was willing to travel there to see with her own eyes. This was why she eagerly spoke to Sten and Zevran and even Leliana, despite her demure reformed self; the travelled foreigners, those that could be her surrogate eyes.

Nimue hummed quietly to herself as she flipped through the pages, remembering some events, her memory refreshed about others. The rest told quite a lot about what Jowan had been up to in the last few months, his thoughts and regrets and feelings. Some of it was about her, but the majority involved Lily and his hopes about her forgiveness right alongside his misery about what had happened.

The elf hadn't spared a thought to the unfortunate initiate in the past months, but the entries reminded her that more lives had been ruined during this bad attempt at an escape. Still, at least the girl had been given to something she believed in, rather than a literal prison.

Well, neither of them could be saved from their fates any further. And this book gave her some closure, if nothing else, getting the regret out of her system. She hadn't dwelled on the event before entering the Gauntlet, but the Guardian had stirred up some old regrets. It was time to move on completely and leave the Tower entirely behind.

"We will be returning to Redcliffe soon; there isn't any need to pine for your cavalier any longer."

Nimue looked up from her reading to see more red hair and a smile hovering above her. She closed her book so that Leliana couldn't have too much of a look at it. She seriously doubted that the bard would be able to read too much of it, but one could never tell with these inconspicuous Chantry sisters that turned out to be able to wipe the floor with a bunch of armed guards.

"What? Oh…I'm just a little tired." the elf said, trying to appear nonchalant. She liked Leliana well enough after these many months of enforced company. But she still didn't know what to think of her firm belief in visions from a higher power and the love of a god who had allegedly left his people twice.

She didn't truly understand the worship of the Dalish either, but at least it apparently had a much different attitude towards magic and its wielders.

Leliana smiled warmly. "It's quite understandable, given what you have to deal with every day. You haven't forgotten entirely, though… have you?"

"It's a little difficult if you keep repeating it to me." The bard giggled a little as she sat down on the ground near Nimue's current chair. "You sound rather excited about our return. Or at least this aspect of our return."

"Guilty as charged. What can I say? You're doing so much for a country that you barely knew a year ago… I think it's high time Ferelden gives you something back. And I must say, you could do much worse than a handsome man who proposes to you." Leliana finished with a grin, the innocent shrug vanishing in an instant.

"I'm not in this out of altruism, Leliana. It's easier to avoid templars if you have a legitimate agenda aside from simply running away." The bard laughed, but she didn't. This was something she meant honestly, at least in part. If not for a few very clear indicators that there was no way to avoid this whole Blight business, she would have second-guessed her involvement in such a potentially lethal quest. "Anything is better than the Tower. Anything."

"I can't say that I understand completely, but what we saw there… well, I find the castle much more welcoming."

"Walking corpses notwithstanding?"

"It isn't as though they are there still around." Leliana retorted, disregarding the joke for a moment or two. Properly decorated and cleaned… but, well, Fereldan castles were more like fortresses than Orlesian palaces. "I hardly envy the poor cleaners, though."

Nimue managed a brief laugh, but didn't find it humorous when a small surge of pain pierced her leg again. "Yes, I imagine they aren't quite so well compensated here as they would be in Orlais for cleaning away guts and bodies."

This, however, triggered a brief surge of shame in the bard. "You made me see the error of viewing things from such a perspective. I wish others could be persuaded of such things with just words of wisdom." Leliana admitted. "Your actions may help to serve where words would fail, though."

The elf remembered that particular conversation well and her brow darkened a little as she set her book aside for good. There wouldn't be any avoiding this moment now.

"Acceptance takes time in any situation. Besides, it's my magic that enhances the persuasiveness of my actions." Nimue added, having no illusion on that point. After all, even Alistair earned more respect in armor fit for either a templar or a knight, with a matching sword and shield. She wore mage's robes partly for this reason, even if she could have switched to lighter armor by now. "When you're already seen as a threat, it's much easier to intimidate people into submission than reason with them."

"Such as you tried with Zathrian?" Leliana was quite curious about that particular affair. She had heard much about the Keeper's age and might from the others, so the battle couldn't have been easy.

"He was an elf; it didn't count. But I'm tempted at times, certainly. It would make many things easier."

"You choose correctly." The bard spoke with conviction, but it might be an idea born out of lack of information. "If you are merely feared, then your allies might be quick to desert you. Besides, most of the time, they need your help to be able to help in turn, so their contribution to our battle is merely gratitude."

"It sounds much simpler when you put it that way."

"Unlike choosing an answer for Bann Teagan, you mean?" Leliana had a cheeky way of steering the conversation towards her true intent with subtlety.

The elf tried to appear more indifferent than ever, but the moment she looked away a little to hide her blush betrayed her. "That's different."

"It's a very different level for decisions since it affects you personally. I think the best way to deal with this would be to think about what you see yourself doing after the Blight."

"We haven't survived it yet, Leliana." the mage retorted, still not really believing it. Or perhaps she just didn't want to rush her decision, despite their impending return to Redcliffe.

"Ah, Nimue, with the way you somehow manage to solve impossible problems, I have faith you will succeed on this occasion as well. We've killed one full-grown dragon already, if you remember, and many smaller ones. I think victory isn't as far-fetched a notion as you might think. The Maker is on our side."

"Well, there's obviously no chance of failure then."

If Leliana saw the sarcasm – and she very likely did – then she ignored it in favor of easy optimism. "Exactly, and you do have reasons to be cheerful over. And perhaps you don't yet see how this could benefit you, even should you care for another."

"What do you mean?" Nimue blinked, confused.

"Marriage among nobles is often pure politics." And that was the easiest and shortest way of putting things. Even without bards, Ferelden wasn't exactly devoid of machinations and schemes. "Love must at times be found outside its confines."

"This coming from a devout Andrastian."

The jab, Leliana ignored; it was made in good humor. "I might have spent much time around the pure and chaste, but I remember well how the world on whose threshold you stand works. It would be an insurance policy, of sorts."

"As a Grey Warden, I already stand above allegiances." Nimue retorted; and this, indeed, was the one true reason why she proclaimed her membership in the Wardens whenever possible and up front. It was highly persuasive, convenient and often more useful than words, spells or swords. "So, in the end, it all comes down to free will."

Marry Teagan or not. No one was forcing her to either of those alternatives, but she could only choose one. And Nimue believed she was getting closer to making this decision, even if she was likely to make it only upon coming face to face with the nobleman.

"And have you decided yet?" Leliana asked tentatively.

"You seem awfully interested in my personal affairs all of a sudden."

"I'm always interested in your well-being, just as a good friend should." the bard explained effortlessly, still smiling all the brighter. "Surely that isn't so surprising?"

"After the time you tried to get Morrigan to go shopping with you, nothing you do can surprise me any longer." After all, she had promised no more secrets, this one, and hopefully would keep that promise. Leliana was like Alistair in that aspect, trying to appear more innocent than she was before confronted with evidence to the contrary.

"And you managed to weasel your way out of it, too! Sneaky mages, the lot of you." She already had an outfit visualized for the both of them and wasn't yet ready to give up on the effort of getting them to the wear them. "Now I understand the true reason why everyone fears you. I don't. Well, I might if you were my enemy, but not as a friend."

"I'll go ahead and see if I can thwart the crisis before it starts." In what the mage hoped was a clear sign that she wished for the conversation to be ended now, she reached for her book once more.

But the bard placed a hand on her shoulder carefully, as if anything more might invite a bad reaction.

"Nimue, I didn't mean to press you - I'd like to help you, if I can."

"It's a different level of decision-making, as you said. I'll decide this on my own." Finally, it would be a decision that was entirely up to her, without anything forcing her into it. In this single matter, she wouldn't be swayed… hopefully. "I'm not expecting a happy ending, Leliana. I'm mostly hoping for one where we survive."

"The Maker would not have created the Blight if we could not test ourselves against it and succeed in bettering ourselves through this ordeal." Leliana noted, distrustful of nihilism in their leader. She sincerely hoped that the mage eventually accepted the offer, so that she would have tangible evidence of having something to live and fight for.

The elf shook her head a little, but gave only the smallest of her arguments against conversion to this religion. "Any god that considers this a learning experience should consider handing out much better benefits for worship, if you ask me."


	17. Beyond Ever After

Apologies for the long hiatus, but this year of college is turning out to be quite the wacky ride, even for me. My exams are over and right at this moment I should be writing a book review on international relations, but the review from waterpeach4 inspired me somewhat in terms of this story, so I decided to go along with it and ended up writing all of this chapter's dialogue in two sessions. What's more, Samsara will also be revived from the beyond and continued, along with my other unfinished fic, Serious. I will have some time on my hands to see to the finish of that, at least.

Oh, and while I've mostly decided how this fic is going to end, with the chapters planned at all, feel free to contribute with your opinion about who should win the love… square?

**o.O.o**

**Beyond Ever After**

**o.O.o**

The conversation was being carefully watched from several angles, not that either woman knew such a thing.

The most inconspicuous observer was ironically the most obvious; a lone mabari warhound, pretending to be enjoying a nap near Nimue's feet. Though his preferred method of communication was somewhat different than that of those around him, it detracted nothing from the creature´s intelligence. Right now, it was almost entirely occupied by rethinking the possibility of success of his bet on the clown knight when it came to winning his elf´s favor.

This was a most troublesome thing, considering how much was riding on this simple wager. The roast beef dinners were incidental, though important on the long run – what mattered was the opportunity to gloat, which was golden in any case. But perhaps he had somewhat underestimated the clown knight´s ability to make his elf happy. He was hardly making any effort at all recently, which was irksome at best. And his elf wasn't responding with wariness and twitchy anger, but tired smiles. Something had changed.

Back at the start, when it had been just the four of them, his elf had been different. She had jumped at mere shadows, displayed a pup-like wonder at the world and put a barrier of wariness between herself and any companion except for him. Now that the barrier was dismantled, things were different. Stable.

The new clan leader was speaking with his elf now, even allowing the red-maned bard to remain within listening distance. The compact between them had apparently been sealed, as the hound understood quite clearly when someone was making an oath. They had accomplished yet again what they had come here to do, with some relative ease.

Relative. Out of the combatants, his elf looked the worst, to put it politely, and they were now attempting to convince her to accept armor of Dalish make to replace her tattered robes. Finally, it was the older mage who came to scold her, like a mother would its pup, and they retreated into one of the wheeled contraptions the elves apparently lived in. the bard was denied entrance, though, and by the older mage no less, hoping to further her persuasion about marrying the hound noble.

Rabbit wouldn't mind that, truth to be told. If they were to live in a castle half as spacious as that in Redcliffe, with their bellies always full, there were no complaints to be had. However, such a thing seemed distant as the sky itself. Right now, the grumpy elves were less gloomy and were allowing them every meager luxury the camp possessed. It wasn't much, but in comparison to their usual search for food, it was a downright banquet. It was tough, living up to the memory of Highever Castle and the royal treatment the hound had once been subject to every day, but it was definitely a step up.

Of course Rabbit wouldn't hold any decision against his elf and follow her in any case; he was simply thinking of the more basic matters that needed attending to if they walked away from this fight.

Like that when all was said and done, they were homeless, save for the qunari, the elder mage and maybe the clown knight. The mabari didn't really think most of them thought of the implications of this, but then again, most of them were far too wrapped up in their own basic emotions to think about practical things.

The red-maned bard had a nice technique of scratching behind his ears and she did so with joy, rather than because of necessary persuasion. She sat down on the grass next to him, a hint of thoughtfulness in her smile.

"You will have to fill me in on what you saw in that ruin." she said sweetly, for once not staring into the distance with a look of melancholy. "The others have been somewhat preoccupied with Nimue's health to bother with such trivialities."

Of course, given that his elf preferred to fight from a distance and had quite a number of competent meat shields by now to slow the progress of anyone who intended to attack her with fang or claw. Seeing her with any non-magic induced injury was as much a concern as it was a surprise. Except for those with sense, like him, who had argued even before that stealth was impossible for even a small group and that thus the presence of the whole pack was more desirable. His elf was many things, but a hunter was not one of them.

Still, the bard looked remarkably blasé about the situation now, as if her initial shock had faded and now tattered robes and a little blood was next to nothing.

Leliana's lips pursed in a mild pout, but she hardly looked too offended. "I was very concerned and you know it." she chided. "Having only a small number of people go instead of all of us is hardly a viable strategy with the kind of battles we usually get into." Yes, there was a hunter, hidden beneath a few shawls. "Fortunately, the only surprise about the entire thing was that Sten was the one taking charge of retrieving Nimue. I've known he has a softer side for a while, but he usually tries to deny it." she pondered, twirling her short braid around a thin finger.

It had begun mostly since the qunari's sword had been retrieved, but Rabbit didn't necessarily think that he would have been any less annoyed with indecisiveness before. However, anyone who sympathized with kittens certainly wasn't an opponent to be taken lightly, which was exactly what Rabbit pointed out.

"Oh, of course it doesn't make him any less of a warrior." That wasn't necessarily what the mabari meant, not that it wasn't completely true. "I'm just saying that a few months ago, he would have likely told you all to simply walk off your injuries. That would have been somewhat difficult in her case."

The huntress observed as his elf was apparently being offered some armor to compensate for her destroyed clothes. It was a transparent ploy to cover up her different scent with that of the Dalish, to make it seem that she was one of their own, but despite this, Nimue was clearly in no shape to reject this. She didn't see it anyway; Leliana did, her brow crinkling a little as she wondered if a human would have been offered the same. Under the new Keeper, possibly. It was nice of them, but they probably felt responsible, so part of it had to be guilt.

The mabari at her side whined a little, and the Orlesian's eyes followed the direction of its nose. Morrigan had clearly caught the implication and was offering a hefty sneer over their leader's shoulder even as she continued observing Wynne's steady healing of the injury. She had offered quips here and there about Nimue's inability to entirely discard the appearance of a Circle mage even after they had gathered enough money to purchase more magically potent clothing. But the mages, for their imprisonment of mind, had some strength. Being accepted this way by what she clearly viewed as the weakest of their groups of allies obviously wasn't to her liking.

On the other hand, Alistair, who was hovering around anxiously, was obviously making the equation that the elf minus torn robes plus Dalish armor equaled… well, his thought process was simply very clear. Leliana stifled a giggle, for a moment at least.

"I'm sure that's true." she smiled, regaining her composure. She gave the mabari's ears another precise scratch, but there was intent in her face as she leaned forward. "Now, why don't you tell me about this competition you have going on with Shale and Oghren." Rabbit growled quietly. Sneaky, then. He should have suspected. "Oh, you are surprised? Sweetling, I was not a bard simply by virtue of my skill with the mandolin. Not that it didn't help of course." Leliana admitted, "But come now. Your innocent cuteness works wonders on the uninitiated, but I've had some experience with this skill before, so it's wasted on me."

Drat, so much for that strategy. But given the bard's machinations – and oh yes, the mabari knew well that the bard didn't hesitate to be more active in her sneaky business than he did – he wasn't so sure that revealing the cards to another player was wise. Even if the player was not actually in the game.

Leliana was also known for a mean game of Wicked Grace, and though she had never actually played against a dog before – though it no doubt would be fascinating to try – she knew wariness and doubt when she saw it.

"Have no fear. We are on the same side in terms of interests and I have no reason to betray your secret." she explained, petting the charming creature again. "Besides, I doubt any of the three of you thought to include any kind of secrecy clause, so you have no reason not to include me in the game. We should have enough privacy here and I doubt Wynne will let your mistress go without a thorough check-up." she added, when it became more obvious that the dog was relenting.

It would be a tough interrogation, but she had gotten through worse. Admittedly, she hadn't thought that Ferelden would be so similar to Orlais in places, but she was willing to take what she could work for.

In the meantime, Nimue's leg had lost most of the blueish welt around the almost-fresh injury, but the blood on her clothes was still making her queasy, even if it wasn't hers for the most part. Battles always felt more real when wounds were involved.

The elf disliked pain; there was nothing artistic or meaningful in it. Especially when it was her own. This instant of foolishly taking a page from Oghren's book would cost her dearly – and what had even possessed her to think that this would be a remotely good idea, she wondered. She didn't know how reliable phylacteries containing ancient essences of warriors really were.

Honestly, there were moments when she disagreed with or even disliked Wynne, but this wasn't one of them. Even if it healing magic felt kind of like fingers being gently scraped across her skin – in a way, very odd – she was willing to tolerate it perfectly well if it took away the pressure trying to bring tears to her eyes.

Wynne's hands eventually stopped glowing just as the newly named Keeper finished with her layout of the Dalish mobilization strategy. All the while, Alistair had remained nearby, looking at her injury with an anxiety that oddly only fueled a touch of anger in his expression. At what, that was difficult to guess.

"I would recommend rest, but as that is not entirely possible in our situation, we can start with something simpler." Wynne was willing to settle, which was saying something. Were he not disturbed by the intensity of the wound and its healing, Alistair might have made an outraged yet witty comment. "If you like, I can help you wash and change."

"I can have a tub of water brought into one of the aravels, if you like." the Dalish keeper offered, clearly enjoying the display of magic so different to her tutor's. She, too, was a contrast to Zathrian, with no trace of the former's steel marring her voice.

All in all, Wynne approved of the change.

"Thank you, that would be most helpful, Lanaya. Are you okay with that?" she added for her patient's benefit.

"Yes." Nimue smiled a little, even if she knew that a choice in the matter was actually out of the question. "Being pampered for a little while doesn't sound so bad."

"Do you need help? I'm not sure you should apply pressure on that leg, magic or no magic."

"I think I can handle this, dear." All things considered, Wynne approved of Alistair. He was a kind lad, entirely suited to the kind of happy ending both these children forced to grow up deserved. Of course, as fate didn't operate on just deserts, she didn't have to either. "Your offer is appreciated, but I somehow doubt Nimue is quite so eager to be seen by you while naked. Besides, you might get your armor rusty."

Children, really; they weren't old enough for this kind of talk if they couldn't handle a simple statement without a serious case of visible embarrassment. Fortunately, Morrigan had chosen to slither away with a simple roll of her eyes once it became apparent the templar wasn't going anywhere, which prevented some scruples.

The Wardens, however, were tied in the competition for reddest face of the day.

"I-ah-I- not that-"

"Hey! I didn't mean- I mean – what I meant was- I'll just dig myself deeper no matter what I say, won't I?"

The old mage smiled kindly, privately enjoying the little jab. The effect would have lasted longer if she hadn't managed to accidentally catch a glance of approval from where Zevran was going through the selection of potential ironbark items they could get from the crafter. "You can take care of her staff for the time being. The wagon doesn't appear to be that big, so it would get in the way."

"I can do that!" Alistair brightened up. The recurring shyness was endearing, though. "I mean… if you don't mind, Nimue."

"Why would I mind? I-it's just a staff, in the end." the elf added, a bit puzzled, but still beet red around the cheeks. "I can get by without it."

"I know that, it's just that you know I'm not the most trustworthy person when it comes to safekeeping. At least, I wouldn't be if anyone actually entrusted anything to me."

"It's all right. I think you can manage."

"Well, I suppose it isn't as if I could set off magic with this thing… right?" the templar's voice turned a little meek. For all his fascination with magic, it couldn't be said that he knew much about its functioning. That he turned to Nimue for guidance than to her told Wynne just about everything she already knew. "There isn't… so I can have a look at it without risking a sparkly and colorful demise?"

"I'm fairly sure you wouldn't be able to kill yourself with a single surge, even if there was a way of such a thing happening." Wynne noted kindly, unwilling to tease much more. "Now come. If you really have such a burning need to make yourself useful, you can carry the armor inside and take the staff then."

"Right!" The armor wasn't at all heavy, though, and given Wynne's grandmotherly appearance, Alistair didn't know if this division of labor was in any way fair. "Wouldn't it be easier if I were the one to carry Nimue?"

The elf's face hadn't even had enough time to cool down before it once more shone like a freshly sealed phylactery. "I need to get used to walking like this a-and I think it's okay to walk again…"

"It is." Wynne nodded, offering the reassurance asked for. She helped the other woman get her leg down on the ground and placed her hands at a proper angle to help her get up. "Slowly, of course."

"Bad idea, I get it." the young Warden muttered, gathering up the armor delicately. "Let's just pretend I'm just mumbling nonsense like usual and get this over with, why don't we?"

The senior enchanter smiled, not missing the way Nimue tried her best to have her hair cover up as much of her face as possible, to the point of coming close to a werewolf resemblance. "As you wish, Alistair."

**o.O.o**

The process took much longer than either woman was used to, but it certainly helped that the awkwardness level was lowered to a minimum between them. Mages were used to each others' presence and this kind of relatively domestic atmosphere went a long way in establishing comfort, even when nudity was involved.

Even with bulkier robes, the elf had a frail build. Without them… well, she certainly wasn't the image of a frontline fighter. The older woman had been rather frightened, seeing her charge to the thick of things back in the ruins.

"You really shouldn't have taken a powerful blood mage on your own like that." Wynne was merely testing the effects of her handiwork now, but the young elf still cringed a little bit when slight pressure was applied near where her recent injury had been. "That sylvan could have taken off a limb instead of just tripping you."

"Yes, well, I'm the child of fortune, aren't I?" A further poke, and Nimue winced once again. Somehow, having her leg laid down in a horizontal line was more painful than limping or even being a limp rag doll in the surprisingly meticulous grip of a clench-jawed qunari. "With luck, I'll be able to slay the archdemon with my indescribable clutziness, ow!"

"It's still a bit tender, I see." Wynne scrutinized the wound carefully, readjusting part of the bandage. She supposed the Dalish armor was good for one thing, this being that the leg bracers managed to serve as a good splint substitute. The leafy motives and earthy tones were quite nice, but something about the costume was unnerving to the mage. Costume – she couldn't really see it as something real. "Right now, you should be getting rest, not traipsing around like this."

Like one of the Dalish, just ready to receive the tattoos they were so fond of, to make up for the lack of elaborate patterns on her bodice. That would be the kind of thing Zevran would be interested in, no doubt; Wynne was more than certain that the so-called ink application ritual the Antivan had begun to describe was simply an invention for the "benefit" of their overly trusting templar, but that had no chance of lessening the effect of what the armor didn't conceal combined with the light flush caused by residual pain. And, given the potency of that mixture, it was likely that the rare instant of leadership initiative from Alistair would be the last coherent plan from that end.

"Because the Blight can be called off so easily until my leg mends." Of course, the less appealing side of the object of their attention that surfaced apparently when injured could somewhat lessen the effect of the mind-melt.

"There's no need to be glib, dear." Wynne frowned, but deemed the job satisfactory. She had been concerned that something like this might happen sooner or later, given the tendency of this ally-gathering business involving more fighting than negotiating, but it was still a little disturbing to see such a severe hit landed on their leader. "That is one of the less pleasing traits you have picked up from your entourage. How does this feel?"

Nimue lowered her leg from the stool it was poised on, eyes kept on the hands moving it. The magic made the limb feel thoroughly stiff, almost as if it had been regrown from scratch. Which would have doubtless been more difficult to achieve, mind you, but the elf had the feeling she knew what such a spell might feel like now.

"Better." She supposed, anyway. "Better. And we have everything we need now. No more treaties to be enforced." Which was kind of scary, now that she thought about it. "Just off to Denerim and then…"

"You are ready for it." Wynne had to attune the level of encouragement in her smile into subtler levels than she usually used. Then again, this was an expression usually reserved for Alistair, given his record in terms of nervous breakdown count. "I would not say so lightly, but you are ready. I know the political game is largely different from most things we've done up till this point, but I believe you will do well. It can be good practice for you as well, you know."

"Practice? For talking the archdemon to death?"

Though there was a certain likeness developing between the two now, Alistair and the girl. Considering what she needed to speak about, Wynne wondered if this was a good thing. "You remember what Aneirin said? About the Circle?"

Judging by the sudden exit of all bitterness-tinted wit, Nimue remembered more than well. Her movements were sharper, in a harsh way, and she forgot herself and actually tried to cross her legs in an obvious defensive posture before the pain reminded her of her limitations.

"I'm not the one." she said simply, biting back further words. "It won't be me, Wynne. I'm sorry." She wasn't, and it showed in her voice.

The older mage was still a little taken aback; the elf had seemed a little more uncertain about her decision than this. This was rather sudden. "So you've decided to marry Lord Teagan."

Nimue's forced hardness vanished as if someone had snapped their fingers; the almost-crimson flush returned to paint broad strokes between her ears. The way she fiddled with her hair to tie it back in a messy knot revealed the entire map. The elven resemblance – well, the prominence of her race's characteristic traits, anyway – was rarely as prominent as it was now, with her hair out of the way.

"I- no, I-… I don't know." Her voice was like a hushed sigh.

And there was the less surprising answer. The senior enchanter didn't even know why she had expected something different at this point. She would have to have a word with Alistair about spreading bad influence later on.

"You can't put of making that decision forever, Nimue. You have some time yet, true, but you will have to make up your mind soon." And with each day, Wynne doubted the other mage had any true desire to once again fit into a pre-made box of a role, no matter how pretty the package might be on the outside. And perhaps she was coming to understand just what marriage was, and how ill-prepared for it she was. "The offer to rebuild the Circle could be your way out, if you wish it."

But she had made a misstep; the docile eyes turned indignant. Defensive, again. "You think I want a way out?"

"I don't know. You'll have to tell me." Wynne countered patiently, sitting down on the now vacant stool. Her own powers were extensive, but telepathy wasn't one of them. And, of course, after years of dealing with apprentices of various arrogance levels, she could deal with a single reluctant student. "You've been spending quite a lot of time with Zevran lately." It was sort of an accusation and Nimue took it that way, but her elder didn't allow her to speak. "When you're my age, dear, it takes far less time than you might think to make connections. I'd advise you against taking that course of action, however."

"What course?" Nimue barked out. She usually didn't snap so automatically, but the entire situation was getting somewhat ridiculous. With the Blight, the political implications of uniting such diverse groups into an army and trying to keep a group of very _diverse_ fighters from tearing each other's heads off, she would have thought such things were the last thing people thought about. Well, some people, at least – and Wynne was definitely one of those people. "So a few conversations must inevitably lead to… I can make my choices on my own and live with the consequences."

"It's time to make one, then." the human countered with a touch of iron. Convincingly altering between stern and kind was a difficult job, but Wynne had more or less been banking on the fact that no one else would try this tactic on Nimue. "You can't keep banking on the idea that you might not survive to put your life on hold. Not all paths inevitably lead to destruction, and there are battles awaiting that can be fought with different weapons."

The knot was tied and all that was missing was a bow and quiver; the Dalish mask would be complete. "I don't want to keep fighting forever." the elf said, but it was a vague and ineffectual answer.

"You will always be fighting and you know it." Wynne didn't say this unkindly; it was simply a fact. The world didn't work the way fools and children believed it to. "A Grey Warden can never rest, even in times of peace. Your calling-"

That was the wrong thing to say. Even defense could be pushed a little too far.

"My _calling _will come in a number of years, and that will be a duty I'll neither relish nor avoid."

"Nimue, I'm being serious."

"And I'm not?" There was a hint of Morrigan in her as well, but even with this influence from both sides of the politeness spectrum, there was something in the words that was distant from either of them.

"I'm not certain you are. Half-hearted and vague treatment of those who care about you will only drive them away in the end. And perhaps that is what you want, in a way." Confused eyes were turning into glaring ones, either due to hurt at the suspicion or shame that she had been properly read. "For no one to be tied to you because you believe it will only hurt them in the end. You treat the future as inevitable for frivolous instead of objective reasons."

"Enough." The elf moved swiftly, too much so. Her cheeks were a little green, but she didn't wobble the way she did when attempting to walk right after the incident. Standing up gave her the illusion of higher ground, which was a sufficient confident boost for her to continue. "Enough of that. I am not empty and I don't want to be cruel! I want to be free! I didn't want to be a mage, but I couldn't escape it. I didn't want to become a Grey Warden, but I was made to do it. But neither of those things will be the sole determinant of my life!"

Wynne had suspected these things to some degree; Nimue had never made a great statement about wanting to save Ferelden because it was the right thing to do. But she was also putting words into her mouth now, letting out things no one had likely ever asked her about. "Do you really believe that running off to marry will change that?" she countered gently.

Nimue looked confused again. "I thought you supported the idea. That you wanted for me to consider the idea." The elf had all but forgotten about her injury in light of genuinely not understanding the purpose of the question. "Does it seem so alien that perhaps I want to marry Teagan because of _him_?"

So it was coming out, then, word by word. This made things a little easier, even if the accusation stung a little.

"I don't doubt your capacity to care for people, even those you barely know. I never said you were empty or that you have no control over your own fate. But there is more to marriage than love and more to you than the good lord realizes."

"More than a Grey Warden?" The ironic echo of her words was back to haunt her. But Nimue wasn't the type to throw salt into the wound; her way was to ignore the enemy after delivering a crippling strike. "I thought there was no such thing."

She was brushing past the red-headed bard in the doorway, barely even noticing the pain of her slight limp or the questioning look sent her way.

"Nimue-"

"Let her go, Leliana." Wynne emerged afterwards, without pomp or outrage. But the accusations had managed to dig deeper into her than she would like to admit.

She would see the Circle restored, reformed into a place where apprentices such as Aneirin would no longer have to fear for their lives without cause. It was rare that a mage was given the power to move free of its restrictions, enough to make others see that there was good to be gained from their powers, aside from the potential for great evil. The symbol of a mage being crucial to Ferelden's salvation had more power than she perhaps realized.

What hurt was the accusation that Nimue as a person mattered next to nothing to her, which was far from the truth. She just didn't think that separating the two into different entities was possible under the current circumstances.

The bard hadn't yet gotten to that point, as her eavesdropping had afforded her to sneak a peek at only about three thirds of the mumbled conversation. "But Wynne…"

The elf was not looking back, not once, already moving to sort out some of their less essential business with the elves. Leliana didn't know what was odder; to see the two Circle mages that usually got along quite well not talking or the fact that switching from a somewhat demure to a nearly Morrigan-esque got simply mild pride that their hero was moving closer to crowd.

"I usually have to deal with young people thinking they're invincible, not fatalistic. I'm disappointed in her, though." Wynne admitted, which was not an easy thing for her to do. "I'd not had thought her selfish enough to believe she can simply walk away from all she has in her life without consequence."


	18. More than Ever After

Apologies for the immense delay, but real life happens, unfortunately. Also, the DA2 bug bit hard, leading to some other fics being started up. However, both this and Samsara will be finished, no matter how long it takes in the end. Fortunately, this dialogue was written long ago, so I had some reference points.

At least there's loads of Alistair to go around, right?

**o.O.o**

**More than Ever After**

**o.O.o**

Nimue really needed to get away from this all. Get away from people who liked to push her in directions they approved of – she needed to stop obeying their whims for the sake of keeping the peace.

How dare she? Senior Enchanter or no, Wynne had absolutely no right to intrude on what little personal life she had left. She could very well proclaim her undying love for Sten and convert to the Qun and it wouldn't be anyone's business but hers. She wouldn't do it, considering what they did to mages in Seheron, but the point was there.

Damn Jowan for being persuasive in his desperation. Damn Duncan for turning her chance at freedom into hell.

And damn Zevran, with his entirely effective way of chipping away at her resolve not to plunge into what could in the end mean a simple fling to him. It was hard to think rationally, though, when intense eyes were boring into yours yet offering no promises beyond those he could fulfill.

The mage kicked hard at the nearest rock, relieved that her new heavier boots could take the blow without injuring her toes.

"Taking out aggression on innocent rocks? Someone has been taking lessons from Shale, I see." Alistair looked no worse for the wear after their trek through the forest, save for perhaps the few twigs he had had to take out of his hair. In any case, if anyone's company was relatively welcome at this point, she could have done worse. "You look better, Nimue."

"Less grime-covered and leg-snapped, you mean?"

"Don't forget the twigs, those were quite scenic." the templar laughed, surveying her new attire with interest and the faintest blush. Yes, she did notice. "Not too eccentric, compared to the usual mage head-gear. Though your new choice of attire is somewhat…"

"Different?"

The smile remained. "I was going to say intriguing, but your word works too. I thought you had other robes, though. I mean-"

"Gifts are always nice." The soft leather of the gloves that had instantly reminded her of a story told not so long ago… Nimue shook the thought off. "Besides, I hardly think we're rich enough to be able to ignore food and hospitality."

"Your priorities are still in the right place, thank the Maker. Though I suppose we'll be dining a little differently once we get back to Redcliffe… and then to Denerim…"

"I don't want to go."

Alistair watched her throw a few berries from a nearby bush to a squirrel that wasn't able to get a proper foothold there. "You don't? Why?"

"I just feel…" Lost. Frightened. Uncertain. But more so, more than ever. This wasn't her world, the one they were going to enter. "I've gotten used to this. Running around the country, hunting down obscure items, attempting to solve life-threatening problems… I sort of wish Arl Eamon would do the whole political dance alone and leave the fighting business to us."

"You know it doesn't work that way. Besides, I'd think you'd be eager to get to Denerim. That business in the Tower of Magi…" Alistair chose not to elaborate, which she was thankful for.

Nimue's eyes dimmed a little nonetheless. She would never forget the moments spent there. How all reason seemed to have fled from her when she had screamed at Greagoir with all the pent up anger of many years, called the templars useless and marched through the accursed doors herself, the others trailing behind. How Uldred had thought she might succumb. How Niall had died. How Cullen-

She didn't want to think about him. The poor templar's attraction to her hadn't gone completely unnoticed, if only due to the powers of gossip residing in the Tower, but she had never thought that it might be so deep. Only strong passion could turn into another emotion just as powerful, given the right impulses.

"Yes. Yes, it was…" Nimue couldn't continue.

This was an expression of grim loss that Alistair was well acquainted with. And so, he repeated the method of comforting that Duncan had offered him after his joining; he placed a tentative hand on the mage's shoulders, gripping gently.

"The day when Loghain pays for his crimes is coming." he promised, both to himself and to her.

"It won't bring them back." Nimue didn't shrug him off, but didn't seek out his embrace either. She could feel other eyes upon her, though whether it was from the Dalish, Wynne or someone less ill-disposed towards her, she couldn't say. "The Wardens, the king… or the mages."

"But it cannot go on like this." No, it couldn't. "It has to stop and he must pay the price."

Once upon a time, when she had been just a small girl in the Tower, tales of the outside world had been limited to history books. Templars and priests refused to talk about the outside and their permission to leave the grounds was always minimal and rare. And so, Nimue grew up reading about the heroes of the rebellion, their golden king, warrior queen and shadow general. Two of the three were dead and gone; she had never imagined that the third might one day become her enemy.

"He does, but…" Thinking about such things served no one, the elf realized with a sigh. Politics was tricky enough without someone like her interfering; perhaps they might yet find a solution with the nobles' support. "Wynne has asked me to return to the Circle."

These words came like a surprise stab to the gut, if Alistair's expression was any indication.

"Return? Why?" he demanded, and Nimue wished he would remember that this was Wynne's delusion, not hers. "You're a Grey Warden now; you don't have to adhere to those rules anymore."

Ah, that was the problem. Strange, that a day should come when a near-templar would be defending her right to remain free of the Circle. Nimue hid a small smile. This human… this _man_ had changed so many of her preconceptions about templars. He was kind and courageous, everything like the princes from stories ought to be. Despite this, in many ways, he was more naïve than she, which was a dangerous thing.

She knew that Eamon hadn't inquired about her intentions towards him out of parental concern alone. This entire arrangement – putting his former ward on the throne, and who better to advise him in the absence of other authority figures? – could be termed convenience or a fortunate set of incidents. But it could also be exploited quite well, if the new king remained uncertain about his decisions.

Funny how a few months ago, she would have readily trusted the arl's charity and goodwill. Now, it seemed that enemies were anywhere and everywhere. Or at least those more than willing to use her for their own purposes.

"No, no… she wants me there willingly. Said I could restore the Circle. Maybe she expects me to take over from Irving, I… I don't really know."

"Ah, so that's why my wayward socks haven't been the target of her stink-eye today." Alistair nodded, but still frowned. It was an uncommon occurrence for Wynne not to spot travelling items of clothing, especially the dirty kind.

"How do they do that, anyway?" Nimue would have to remember to keep her tent away from his next time if it was so easy for the socks to migrate. "They must really dislike you to sneak off every time."

"What can I say? Ours is a forbidden love. But now you're changing the subject… what did she say?"

"Aren't you going to ask what I said?"

"No, because you've been very clear about your opinions about the Circle for the past year." Alistair didn't necessarily agree, but he understood a mage's perspective. A year ago, he would have been vehemently against it, but the thought of Nimue back in that prison, against her will… he wouldn't allow it, no matter what Wynne said. "Now that you've turned all forest resident on me, you could practically be Morrigan's sister…"

That was a disturbing thought. But the revealing armor did nothing to turn his mind away from the thought of Nimue's pale skin in the moonlight, dancing among the trees…

The elf's eyebrows arched. "Forest resident?"

… clothing only strategically covering her modesty as she danced in the light of fires, performing ancient magic without even having to resort to her powers…

"… and I probably should have found a nicer way to put it because it's not that you look bad or anything and that armor actually suits you and I'll just be shutting up now and possibly switching the topic." Alistair tried to say all that in one breath, willing himself not to blush or look anywhere near her neckline. "What did Wynne say?"

"She prodded. I snapped." A surprisingly terse explanation. Bad, then. "She was… is… displeased. Is it such a wonder that I don't want to return to the Tower? Never mind, you probably share the same viewpoint."

"Well, in a way, but you know my allergy to nervous mages… and I don't really share it, just so you know. You always look sad when the Circle is mentioned." It made him want to cradle her in his arms and say things beyond empty assurances; make real promises that only death could stop him from keeping. Perhaps not even that, if she returned his affection. "No, not sad, more like… I don't know, resigned. Angry and resigned at the same time. It really isn't that hard to see."

"Will things change for mages when you take the throne?" Nimue asked suddenly.

"Whoa there, whoa, whoa." Alistair raised his arms defensively at the innocent question. She sounded so certain, so… confident. "Since when did this become that kind of conversation?"

She supported his bid for the throne. The idea terrified Alistair to the core, because it meant that she either didn't see his feelings or didn't return them. He had wasted _so much time_… and if it came to the worse, if Eamon had his way… he would lose this woman forever, to Ferelden, to the Wardens, to his own damnable stupidity.

The King of Ferelden couldn't marry an elf, a mage, or a Grey Warden who couldn't bear children. To marry all three would mean nothing short of a coup against him.

But he wasn't the King of Ferelden – _not yet_, a small voice in his head whispered – and so he could. Marry, that is. The fact that he was thinking of the final step of a relationship before it had ever truly begun was almost staggering, but Alistair decided it was because he truly wished it to become reality that he was imagining this future.

Of course, it would all be for naught if she accepted Bann Teagan's proposal…

That was what he needed to ask her. Did she love Teagan? His uncle – well, step-uncle, in a way – was a good man, even a great one, but also older than Nimue by at least fifteen years. He was a noble as well, which would provide some complications, but Rainesfere wasn't one of the most important bannorn, so it could perhaps be manageable…

"I'm curious." Nimue was answering him, refusing to let the question go, as if he were already crowned. Perhaps they had spent more than just two encounters together, her and Teagan, and with Eamon's support… "And you've never really mentioned what you think you'll do. Not about the Circle or anything else."

"Maybe because I'm still very much against this crazy idea floating around that I would make anything close to a good king?" Alistair now understood that selfishness was often rewarded in an unfair world. Perhaps it was selfish of him to want something more than to serve Ferelden. "Have you forgotten the cheese incident?"

That impish smile alone was a force to be reckoned with. "Which one?"

"The one two weeks ago. I think." Alistair added, his face scrunched up in remembering.

"It's a tough game, but I still support your bid for the throne." Here, blue eyes softened and Alistair almost forgot anxiety and fear, almost blurted out what would have likely been the most un-romantic confession of love in the history of Thedas. "We all do what we must, Alistair. Besides, I do actually think you'll make a good king."

"Oh, really?" So she didn't know; this was merely her opinion of his competences. Something in his chest, clutching hard until then, loosened a little. "Such a vote of confidence coming from Lady I-Don't-Want-To-Get-Involved-In-Politics."

"You said you studied history as a templar." She remembered. She _always_ remembered these things, the things no one ever listened to. "Well, we have books about politics as well."

"Really? Huh, I would have thought the Chantry would like to keep you mages as isolated as possible." The Tower had certainly done its best to be a prison without appearing entirely like one. Though it was a difficult thing to look accommodating in any way when there was unnatural growth all over it.

"Yes, well, even the slower of us eventually start to wonder what lies outside the tower. It's a small… confined world." Nimue explained, a strange contradiction in her face. She had loved the Tower and hated it in the same measure, though possibly at different stages of her life. "Though the books can be a great thing, for a while, at least. Anyway, my original point was that you'll be a good king. You've got experience in fighting for what you want, have seen your whole country, don't lose your pants anymore when needed as a temporary leader…"

"Speaking of that, don't ever force me into such a situation again, do you hear me?" _Don't ever_ _make me see you limp and helpless, don't ever make me see you bleed, don't ever make me witness others leap to your defense while not giving me a chance, don't leave me… "_Next time you need some heavy lifting done, take at least one sword-swinging person with you."

"Zev was with me and he qualifies." Nimue pointed out, using the nickname as freely as air.

Alistair wasn't very impressed. No, he was more worried and irritated. She hadn't cast the assassin aside yet and with the way she had allowed him to proclaim her his wife – for a good cause, but still…

Teagan was a distant threat that he could possibly counter. But Zevran was always there, always watching and at her side more often than not, more often than even he was nowadays.

The elf was shifty, damn it all, and Alistair didn't trust him around Nimue in more ways than one. If it wasn't because he would stab her through the heart if given a chance, then his other designs on her body (heart possibly included) were transparent enough.

"Yes, well, forgive me for not doing my happy dance. When I mean sword-swinging, I would prefer it to be someone who actually fights. Dancing around and stabbing people in the back doesn't really count, you know."

"Another kingly trait there – keeps a firm standpoint on things. But you could lay off a little bit with the suspicion." Nimue noted, a bit weary of this. "He doesn't seem to be about to try anything funny again."

_One night of pleasure that I would much rather turn into many, my Warden. Are you not cold, fair nymph, in those wet clothes? When we return to camp, I will gladly assist you in warming up…_

_Nimue… no one has ever simply… given me a gift before. Thank you. That you thought of me at all… _

"Speaking of that… what's this I hear about you being - what's the word I'm searching for – oh, yes, married to him?" Alistair was red to the very roots of his hair, though more likely out of embarrassment than anger. Nimue almost laughed; at the very least, it served to bring her away from thoughts that were most definitely not productive to rational thinking, let alone sanity. "When did that happen?"

She gave a sheepish smile and laughed a little, quite certain that if she had had any elder brothers, this was the look they would have given her for maidenly misbehavior. "Oh, yes, that…"

"Oh, yes, that?" Alistair's voice was usually pleasing and even mellow, but rose in pitch very quickly when he was exasperated. "You don't think news like this might have deserved a casual mention at the camp before I heard it from Dalish elves we barely know?"

Everything about his mother hen appearance suggested that she had ruffled more than her share of feathers today and You Have Some Explaining To Do, Young Lady.

"It's my attempt to not sabotage our recruitment efforts by having half of this camp go after us." Now she was the one on the defensive, trying not to back straight into the nearest tree. "I thought it might be most believable if it were me, since we're both elves."

"So you're - you're not-" Dear Maker, had he actually thought-?

Nimue had to concede that it was possible, yes, given how often marriage kept popping up in casual conversation nowadays. But if Alistair was so familiar with Zevran's motives as he claimed to be, he would have quite easily been able to tell that such vows of fidelity were rather far from the elf's vocabulary.

It was enough that the silly Dalish girls and boys didn't know that.

"While we're in this camp, yes. Once out of earshot, not that I know of." she explained firmly. "You don't have to be so distressed about it. I didn't sign a pact with a demon or anything. It's a thing of convenience."

Not that it would stop Zevran from milking it for all it was worth while they were here. Perhaps that was part of the reason why leaving for Redcliffe and then Denerim continued to grow less appealing the closer it got. The comments, she had gotten used to and the hints at groping by virtue of proximity…

Maker, but she was a silly girl herself.

"Oh, good, because I was really worried about my cluelessness level if I missed something like that." Alistair breathed an audible sigh of relief. No doubt he would have had a heart attack if he had tried asking Zevran about this first.

"I would be a bad person to not invite you to the feast, wouldn't I?" Nimue grinned, "Especially since you actually managed to get me to like cheese."

"Hey, don't say it like an accusation!" The relief pouring through him was as welcome as flowers in the spring. "Cheese is an experience that shouldn't be denied to anyone! I never really understood how horrible you mages have to have it in that tower until you told me that. So then, funny story, how did you end up with a snapped leg?"

Best steer the conversation away from Zevran. The strange look in her eyes when they spoke of the elf was a little worrying, but Alistair chalked it up to discomfort. She had sacrificed her own personal space for a bunch of elves she barely knew. If that wasn't dedication to Grey Warden ideals, he didn't know what was.

"That was my fault, sort of. Got too close to a sylvan to avoid getting trapped in its roots and, well, it tried to hug me but missed."

But she had picked up some of Alistair's own humor along their journey, and the ex-templar was quite grateful to see traces of his own influence in her.

"Cute. You do remember that your magic usually works best as a ranged weapon?" And the image of her fighting up close against darkspawn was hardly comforting. "Not that trying to clobber the thing with your staff isn't an inspired choice, but… oh, wait, now that would just be silly, wouldn't it?"

Nimue laughed, thoughts of marriage and Wynne and darkspawn fleeing from her mind for a while. Forgetting about their plight; that was one of the great gifts Alistair possessed – cheering her up. And it certainly was one of the primary reasons why they had become such fast friends.

"That certainly does explain your thought process, Alistair." she teased.

"Doesn't it? You should try it sometimes. It might do wonders for you." Sage advice, that, but it seemed that the human also possessed the mysterious ability not to be distracted by his own humor when the situation warranted it. "Nimue, this is exactly what I meant by having more people with melee weapons at your side – so you don't have to charge to the frontline."

She didn't tell him about how small the chamber had been, filled with spirits and arcane creatures, or how easily separated they had gotten once inside. Mentioning how Zevran had almost tackled a shade that tried to enclose her from the other side was out of the question. It was her own stupidity that had sent her tumbling into the sylvan's path.

"I'm not sure what I was thinking; instinct, I guess." Perhaps more than that, she remembered. She hadn't told anyone else, but perhaps it was time for the secret to come out. "Or maybe it was the arcane warrior implanted memory thing acting up."

"Implanted memory?" Alistair repeated, blinking owlishly. "Arcane warrior?"

On second thought, perhaps she should have told someone with a deeper knowledge of magic, but Wynne was out of the question and Morrigan… well, it seemed that some of the halla had taken an interest in her woodland smell, so getting her to cooperate was out of the question. An irritated Witch of the Wilds meant trouble, friends or no. Those leathers of hers must have carried with her the smell of many a swamp clinging to them to make the creatures so confused.

"Eh, well, there was this vial in the ruins…" Nimue tried to explain in the simplest terms. "I sort of triggered it by accident, but I think it was for the best." she added hastily.

"Um… could you elaborate?" Alistair looked like he didn't really want to hear the rest, but needed to. "I think I'm a little out of the loop here. In fact, the loop and I have drifted apart a while ago and our relationship was never truly the same ever since."

And so Nimue obliged him, leaving out the fact that it had been only her and Zevran there when it had happened.

Alistair looked like he was about to pop a vein nonetheless, and that was before Morrigan made it within earshot. The dark witch seemed interested in the description and remained much calmer throughout the entire explanation.

"Do you have the slightest idea what could have happened to you?" Morrigan chided, golden eyes flashing. "Demonic possession is nothing to be trifled with. If your body had been taken over by the spirit, 'twould have been most difficult to retrieve your consciousness from it."

Still, it was done, and the warning seemed to be the extent of her intention.

Alistair, on the other hand, didn't find words at first, but lapsed into sarcasm out of habit.

"Yes, Nimue, it would have been dreadful to have to go through with such a process. Do you know how much eye of newt would be required for that?" As the witch's capacity for idiocy was filled for a day, she gave an unladylike snort and sauntered away, muttering about domesticated animals on her way past them. "But could you please repeat that? Because it sounded like you allowed some soul-in-a-jar you barely knew into your own mind on a simple hunch."

"I… guess?"

Wrong answer. The metaphorical vein had popped.

"Have you lost your mind? You could have- could have been- Wynne let you do this?" He had his armored hands on her shoulders again, standing much closer with an expression that was entirely too grim. Not dark enough to be a templar, but definitely enough to be a disapproving parent.

"She sort of wasn't there…?" Nimue had to venture that far, but refused to elaborate.

"Then where was she? Who was there? And are you sure you're all right?" Alistair's initial mask of anger was fading away into pure concern. "It isn't like you to rush to the forefront of a battle. Maybe the spirit is affecting you somehow…"

"It was just memories, Alistair. The spirit didn't posses enough strength to… possess anyone." It had just wanted to die. At times, Nimue found herself sympathizing. "Besides, I have experience with resisting possession attempts."

Letting go with reluctance, Alistair realized that he had gone a little too far. His cheeks were alight with worry and embarrassment, but he composed himself quickly enough. Nimue was the only one who spotted that they now had several observers in the distance, most of which turned back to their tasks immediately upon noticing her staring back.

"Yes, I-I didn't realize."

Wynne was tending to the wounded, her back turned to her, but she seemed to be casting her disapproval in the direction where Zevran was apparently entertaining Oghren with some doubtless off-color jest, if the dwarf's roaring laughter was anything to go by. Strangely, Shale was nearby, not distancing herself from them whenever possible.

Funny, that.

"It's nothing."

"No, I shouldn't have." Alistair repeated firmly, not merely playing the man of honor. The mage felt a smile tug at the edge of her lips, even if her gaze was still directed towards where Rabbit had inexplicably joined the peculiar group. "But I'm still a little worried. Why did you not try this out in the camp before attempting to utilize the technique in battle?"

"Guess I'm taking a page out of your book - I'm improvising."

"Oh, so your potentially crippling injury is actually a result of my influence? I'm so proud of my teaching abilities. What does it mean, then? Did you gain skill only with the sword? Is it a magic thing?" Alistair looked eager and confused at the same time. "Evidently, a staff remains a staff, even in your hands."

Nimue didn't really know how to term what she was experiencing. It wasn't another consciousness in her mind, merely memories that she couldn't really place. Another life… another existence in a faraway land.

"I think I need to use this." she said, finally looking back at her fellow Warden. "I can now hold a sword properly… perhaps it's time to learn how to wield it as well."

"Memories or no, swordplay isn't something you can learn in a day, Nimue." Alistair obviously didn't understand the extent of the transformation, but that was secondary. "I know it doesn't look very impressive compared to your magic, but it actually does take years of practice."

"The archdemon won't wait years."

"The last ones did."

"We don't have years." And she refused to devote all of the years she had to spare to hunting and being hunted. "I'll learn. I'll do whatever it takes. And then…" Her smile was so confident, Alistair almost didn't even recognize the frightened mageling he had first been saddled with. "Then I'll be ready for whatever this Blight can throw at me."

Her eyes were burning with the fire of determination as she turned to walk back to the camp, ready to face those standing against her once more. And Alistair was left alone to ponder what things would be like if their positions were reversed – she the unwanted heir and he the released mage – just as Rabbit was trying to renegotiate the terms of his participation in the ongoing wager.


	19. Chapter 19

Apologies for the huge gap – I finally have time to continue my fanfic writing. If anyone still wants to see this story continued, please review/PM me and I will go on writing the story with the most support.


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